Ultimate Harry Potter
by Oirams
Summary: story takes place ten years after Voldie gets killed(absorbed into Harry). Since Voldie's gone so is Harry's Mother's protection. Harry has been dying slowly and is dated to die this tenth year. He doesn't. And the Order is suspicious...I like reviews so.
1. 1 The Beginning

"In the old days, wizards often took up surnames. These names were their label, used to characterize the nature of their works and specialties. When the time came for Thomas Riddle to take one, he chose Voldemort." "I see that some of you recognize that name. Like many of you, my mother also used 'Voldemort' to scare me to sleep whenever I was stubborn. But to the 20th century wizards, it rang no alarm bells. Indeed, there were many in those days that studied the Dark Arts. It was just unfortunate for the world that He-Who-Must-Not-be-Named was among the few that succeeded."  
  
-Professor Alastor Pruett's History Lecture  
Hogwarts, Slytherin 7th-years, 5th Period  
  
Ultimate Harry Potter  
By Oirams  
  
Chapter 1 The Beginning  
  
The moon rose slowly upwards, casting its revealing light over the entire of Hogsmeade Cemetery Hill. The silvery glow spilled from leaf to branch until, at last, it illuminated the grounds below. The shadows yawned, and stretched their darkish legs. Now was the time for their descent. The cemetery became more looming, and the dark, more sinister. In the shadows lay the source for the unholy: for monsters, for thieves, and for unseen death.  
He stepped into the cemetery afraid of neither monster, thief, nor death. He had seen too much to be frightened by mere imagination. Reality was far harsher. The light of the moon slid gently into contact with the man, and, for an instant, his whole face was revealed. He bore sickly, white skin, and a lightning-shaped scar primped prominently on his forehead. It was a lengthy scar, and was indescribably grotesque. His hand touched it almost without thinking. It was a physical reminder of the things he had witnessed.  
  
The dead that rested here had been classmates of his. Their murders had been gruesome, and tragic. But, at least, they had died together. Harry felt suddenly jealous of that. As if being massacred was something to be desired. They had not wanted to die, and Harry chided himself for his own death wish. He could imagine what they must have felt...Burned until their bones melted, and their lifeblood turned to vapor; there had not been enough of them to fit a matchbox. Their remains could not be sorted, or identified. There was nothing to show that they had even existed.  
They had all died before they were nineteen.  
A lifetime, my friends, he thought sadly. He was trite, but he did not know what else to think. He felt stupid. He felt out of place. In the left reaches of his mind, he half-expected their ghosts to arise from their empty coffins, and start berating him, asking him when it would be HIS turn to die. Soon, he thought as he strolled past each row of graves. Soon. His hand danced on top of the gravestones. The touch was dusty, and abrasive. His hand passed by names like Terry Boot, Susan Bones, Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnigan, and many, albeit less familiar, others...Sadly, he knew only a handful of these people. He had not been a social person. In fact, he had only needed or wanted two friends. Friends, whose graves lay uncomfortably before him. The gravestone on his left read: '  
Hermione Granger.  
B. September 16, 1980  
D. July 13, 1997 On his right:  
Ronald C. Weasley  
B. March 20, 1980,  
D. July 13, 1997 His hands shook as his eyes scanned the typography. His mouth began to water for a soothing Pall Mall. He hurried to oblige his addiction. "Bah!" he cried. Empty. He threw the empty pack away in disgust. After a few bounces, the pack landed awkwardly in front of Ron's grave. The man who had thrown the litter only stood there, eyeing it dumbly. And then he began to laugh. A violent and unnatural laugh that would disturb even the most insane of psychotics. "Sorry, buddy," he giggled, fishing the crumpled litter back into his pockets. "I forgot you didn't smoke." The man had smoked his last deathstick at the airport, waiting for the blasted luggage conveyor belt. There was something about American cigarettes that were different from British fags. Maybe it was the tobacco or the packaging that made the difference. He didn't know nor care. But he knew that his fingers were trembling because of it. Nicotine shock was a bitch with no master.  
"Hey, Hermione. Hey, Ron," he muttered, walking up to their gravestones. He laid his hyacinths down. The flowers were damp, and ugly. He felt foolish to bring them. They were meaningless, but the girl at the airport boutique had been so sincere that he had bought them just to be kind. After he had placed his flowers, he was at a loss as to what to do. He didn't feel like he belonged here. He didn't feel wanted. His depression deepened, and he began to doubt if it had been a wise move to return, to England, to the place where his troubles had first begun. His girlfriend back in the States had warned him not, saying that he had 'self-destructive tendencies'.  
No shit, Sherlock, he thought, pulling a flask of whiskey out from his inner pockets. He unfastened it, and poured some generously onto Ron's grave. The man winked at Ron's headstone. There was something oddly innocent about the way he held the bottle...and, at the same time, depressing. Drink up, Ron. We're going to get plastered tonight, you and I. He giggled foolishly, and then inhaled the brown liquor. He had never been a good drinker, and after a few small gulps, his face became a flowery red. He continued to drink regardless.  
He slumped down, sliding off Ron's gravestone, and onto the ground with a resounding thump. The bottle was still attached to his hand, and he eyed the mouth of it, coaxing it to produce a few more drops of sweet oblivion. Even though the night chill had set, the top mounds of the two graves were surprisingly warm-Or was it just the whiskey that made everything burn?-and he laid his body to rest on top of them. His eyes fluttered open and shut as he struggled to keep awake. He feared sleep for his dreams were usually the nightmarish variety. He dreamt of the dead, mostly. They would claw at him, and ask when it would be his turn. He would reply 'Soon, Cedric. Soon, Uncle Sirius', but they always called him a liar. And then they would begin their clawing again. Their dead hands felt unbelievably real...Yes, He feared sleep, if one could even call it that. No such dreams, however, came this time. He slept peacefully and free from all nightmares. No monsters here, he dreamed happily. Not with Ron and Hermione standing guard. It was the rain that finally forced him to rise. He had been content to lie there interminably but the fear of catching a fever made him change his mind. He was already suffering from the effects of a prolonged Killing Curse, and there was no need to include pneumonia to his already long list of ailments. He arose from the ground slowly. The whiskey was still churning in his stomach, and it took nearly his all to even stand. Driving back to Hogsmeade Inn was out of the question. Again, the rain spat at his forehead, trickling down from his cheek to his lips. His tongue caught the rogue, and he tasted it. Foul. Bitter. Absentmindedly, he began to incant a simple shelter spell, one that he had learned as a schoolboy. The rain came harder, mocking him, reminding him that he hadn't enough magic in him to ride a broom much less perform a basic Umbrella Charm. "Goddammit!" he yelled at the sky, cursing whatever God it was who was responsible for his life.  
He threw a steady stream of curses. He beat the ground. He was mad. He was loud. He was drunk. He didn't care if he made a scene. There was nobody here except him...and his dead friends.  
But there was someone there.  
  
"Do not swear in a cemetery, Harree,"said a familiar voice. "In my country, it is disrespectful to the dead. The taboo is the same here, no?"  
Harry turned and saw a tall, darkish man limping slowly toward him. The man had wrapped himself behind the shadows, and even had Harry been clearheaded, he would have found him hard to detect. The other man moved closer, and as the moonlight hit the stranger, more details were revealed. Harry recognized the dragonhide armors to be Auror-issue, and the badge gave the rest away. The phoenix burning brightly alongside a flaming torch was the symbol for a full ranked Auror Commissioner. An office that, in a better world, Harry felt should have been his.  
"Krum," said Harry angrily. Krum had aged remarkably but that Quidditch-broken nose of his was unmistakable.  
Krum returned a smile, and his behaviorisms were strange, almost amicable. This wasn't the Krum Harry knew at all. The Krum he knew had been brash, quick to anger, and slow to forgive. Age may have mellowed the man but Harry doubted it. After the demise of the Dark Lord, many other copycat Lords had appeared all over the world, aping the monster of a man by reenacting his worst murders. He could not begin to fathom the horrors Krum had cased over the years. But it did not fully explain the man's tentative behaviors. However, Harry's head was still reeling from the whiskey, and his head hurt too much to think on it any further.  
  
"What do you want, Krum?" Harry asked impatiently.  
Viktor shifted uneasily, using the silence to place his own flowers onto Hermione's grave.  
"How vos the plane trip? I do not understand vy you had to use those unsafe metal houses," said Viktor, ignoring the nasty looks Harry was giving him. "Our offices in America is only a few miles away frum you. I am sure they vould lend you their Portals..."  
Idle talk? Harry thought drunkenly. He's chitchatting?  
"Back off, you Auror lapdog," spat Harry, stepping away from Viktor as the Auror approached. "Did the Ministry send you? Bloody hell; if they want something from me then come straight out with it! Stop pretending to be some long lost fucking 'buddy'..." And then Harry added, almost whispering entirely to himself. "...because all mine died a long time ago..." Harry nearly tripped from walking backwards but Krum was there to steady him. Harry pushed him away. "Leave. Me. Alone," Harry slurred, and then muttered to himself, "No one messes with me today, you ken? Not today." Krum frowned. He did not drink liquor himself, and he could not imagine why anyone else would. The lack of self-control was not only stupid; it was dangerous. Harry, ignoring Krum's disapproving stare, waved a fist menacingly. "I'm not afraid of you, you hear me? I'll still fight you! Even without bloody fucking magic!"  
  
"Calm down, Harree!" placated Viktor. "It just is that the Ministry has be vonting to ask you a very few simple questions about your health...I mean, if you are with nothing to hide..."  
"They want to know why I haven't died yet, is that it?" Harry walked closer to Viktor, going under the cover of the Umbrella Charm Viktor had erected.  
"Spell me," Harry said, through clenched teeth. His head was hurting like a bitch again.  
"Vot?"  
"Ennervate or whatever," replied Harry. "I'm 'bout to pass out."  
"For Merlin's sake, Harree," said Viktor drawing, spelling and sheathing his wand in a smooth motion, "You've must be stopping-Ennervate!- with the drink. It vill be the death of you someday."  
The spell came over Harry in waves, pulsing him with new life.  
I used to be able to do that, he thought sadly.  
  
"Death? Every morning, the curse Voldemort gifted me as a baby makes me cough enough blood to leave me crawling on the floor," said a lucid Harry. "Liver cancer's the least of my worries." Harry looked carefully at Viktor, who stood imposing and tall in his standard-issue armor and strapped broadsword. There was a deep sadness about him, and Harry realized that the man hadn't heard a word he had just uttered. The Auror was staring off into space and somehow, Harry knew what the older man was thinking. There were few things that could penetrate through Krum's emotional façade, and Harry knew of only one. Harry's voice became gentler, almost forgiving. "You're thinking about Hermione, aren't you?" Viktor remained silent.  
"She liked you, you know," Harry admitted. "A lot."  
"I know."  
  
Smug bugger, Harry thought to himself. Hermione and Krum had been...She was dead now so there was no use in predicting what their relationship could have meant. But Hermione had trusted Krum...Harry wondered whether or not to he should do the same. Hermione had always been a good judge of character. The worst that could happen to Harry, if he told his secret, was execution—but then again, Harry was dying anyways. He really had nothing to lose. Then again, he had nothing to gain either. "Fine. I'll tell you why I'm not lying in bed, puking my brains out," Harry said, finally deciding. He took up a small hand knife, and presented the blade solemnly. Although Harry's movements were purposefully slow, it still startled Viktor, so much so that the other man went into defensive mode immediately, dematerializing his wand from its holster and unto his hand in an instant. Harry laughed. "Trust me. You're in no danger," Harry snorted derisively. "The only person I'm aiming to hurt...is me." He began to press the knife gently against his palm. "Look closely. I'm only going to perform this once."  
  
Harry winced in agony as the blade dug into his flesh. The blood welled up...but then a tongue of purple energy erupted from the wound, lapping up the blood so that when it was all over...It was as if the wound had not existed at all.  
The spell forged from Ancient Magic that had protected Harry from Voldemort had returned. It had been gone for nearly ten years, vanished right after Harry had defeated the Dark Lord Voldemort. The power was a reactive type, created by Harry's mother to specifically guard him against Voldemort's machinations. There was no possible reason for its return unless... Krum grasped the significance almost immediately. His voice, usually calm, betrayed his worries. It shook and trembled, "V-Vould you come with me to-"  
"Yes. I'll come with you, and help you give your 'report' to the Ministry..." Harry trailed without emotion. He muttered inaudibly to himself, "...Came back to England... to die...any place'll do, I guess..." He eyed Krum contemptuously. "I swear, if I hear anyone dare claim that I'm the new embodiment of Voldemort-That ends my cooperation, you understand. Magic or no magic, I'll beat them bloody."  
Viktor nodded assuringly but Harry noticed how uncomfortable the man was. Tense shoulders, wary glance—It was as if the Auror half-expected demons to leap out of Harry at any second. This was rather alarming. He had hoped his long years in exile would have swept most the suspicions away. Clearly, by Victor's reaction, this was not the case. The wizarding world had reacted the same way when Harry had explained exactly how he had defeated the Dark Lord. They had not heaped praises for his sacrifice but instead had done everything but level their wands at him. Harry fervently hoped that the Ministry was filled with fewer disbelievers this time around. But that was foolish optimism. How could anyone ever trust a person that had melded with Voldemort? Why would they believe Harry's story about what had happened during that Final Battle? It was far more believable that it was Voldemort who had overpowered Harry's mind, not the other way around-After all, how could a teenage boy, no matter how special, defeat the Dark Lord when so many greater wizards had submitted? But Harry knew, vehemently, that he had. He had chased the Dark Lord through every plane of existence until the self-styled 'Thief of Death' could run no more. Even had Voldemort begged for his life, Harry would still have killed him. It was only fair. But it had also been...unreal. Voldemort had been unrepentant. "You think you've won, haven't you, Potter?" asked Voldemort between dying gasps. "You think they'll treat you like a hero again after they've seen you wield those superpowers against me? One look at you and they'll not think of how you saved them. They'll think, what will he do with those powers now that he has them? They will FEAR you far more than they have FEARED me! They will force you to submit to their rules, and then they will conspire to kill you. They will give you no choice. THAT is the language of the real world. Don't turn away from me, Potter. You need to hear this as much as I need to say it..." Harry remembered how strange it was that the most powerful Dark Warlock in the world had been so calm about death, daring to lecture Harry about life even as his own slipped away.  
"Normal people only understand FEAR! One day, you'll awaken to this wisdom and you'll know why you must continue the legacy of Salazar Slytherin. There is no choice. There has never been! You either obey or are the one who is obeyed. Which will you choose? Will you follow laws set by those such as Cornelius Fudge? Or would you take the harder road, the path of Kings and Conquerors? I wonder..." Harry felt the truth of Voldemort's dying statements resonate within him, but denied it with all his will. Harry wanted nothing to do with that mass murderer. He did not want to empathize. He would carry loathing for that monster until the day he died. Voldemort had killed his parents, his two best friends, nearly his whole class...Harry clenched his fists angrily. But there were no more enemies to defeat. No more battles to fight. Just the future to expect. However bleak it was.  
Harry noticed that Krum had still not holstered his wand. People only understand fear, he quoted to himself.  
"You can put away your wand now, Viktor." Krum reluctantly sheathed his wand, as if he was afraid to be defenseless in front of him. Harry grit his teeth. Would everyone treat him like this? Why? Krum? Didn't we fight together? Doesn't my word count for anything anymore? They headed up the steep Hogsmeade Cemetery Hill, where Krum's car waited. When they arrived to the apex, Harry was panting like a dog. Krum only stood relaxed, breathing as shallowly as if he had been strolling through a park. Harry had had enough. When they got to the car doors, Harry slammed his fist onto the hood, denting the black sheen of the vehicle. He exploded at Viktor's face, questioning him, cursing him, and doing whatever he could to get back the friend Krum had once been to him. "What are you afraid of? Look at me!" Harry held out his wrists. " I am NOTHING. No powers. No magic. I am nothing. Why won't you people believe me!"  
  
Krum shrugged innocently, ducking his head so he could enter into his small car. Harry stood there, fuming. He leapt into the car and grabbed Krum by his neckguards. "Answer me!" Krum brushed Harry aside, buckling Harry's seatbelt as he did so. He paused for a moment, and then spoke. It was a measured tone, as if Krum expected Harry to already know what he was going to say. "My subordinates haff a running bet on you back at Auror Central on ven those powers vill return to you. I haff not yet betted but I am thinking that it is stupid."  
  
"Oh really," said Harry, disgusted that they would gamble over how crippled he was. "Why's that?" "It falsely assumes that you haff lost them in the first place," spoke Krum with conviction. He had an accusing look on him, as if he half-expected Harry to confess immediately. "You better hope they don't return during the trip back to London," Harry grumbled. "Because, right now..." Harry delivered the last sentence with a spit into Krum's cup holders. "...I'm liable to slit your throat."  
"You are most certainly velcomed to try, Potter."  
  
Krum's face was straight and emotionless. But then again, he was like that all the time. God, I need a fag badly, Harry thought. Talking to Krum made his head hurt.  
  
Harry slumped resignedly into the passenger seat and closed his eyes. There was little else to do but wait.  
  
Viktor started up the car. He tried three times but at the fourth, the car moaned a little, and gave way, powering up with a bang. It chugged away dutifully on the road, rolling normally along, until Krum pulled the silver 'GO' button. The ground lurched away and soon, the car was soaring over the air, passing over the Forbidden Forest, and out of sight. Below them, the cloaked man who had been spying on them emerged from the shadows. He was a short man, but his green cloak was even shorter. He stood there, unsure of whether to follow his targets or to investigate Hogsmeade further. He stood quietly for nary a minute before...His left ear tingled sharply as if someone had yanked it with great might. The Cloaked Man cocked his head, listening intently to the seeming silence.  
"Yes, sir. They've taken him to London, sir," said the Cloaked Man out loud.  
The Cloaked Man cocked his head again, straining to hear over the patter of the rain.  
"I understand." With that, the cloaked man vanished, hurrying to follow the orders he had just received.  
  
Please REVIEW ME!  
  
Special Thanks: Jenny Harris, and Katy Costa. Although, Katy was the most helpful. After all this time, I think I've finally finalized my chapters. I really liked the alternate version where my Trio was born in 1960. And I wanted to make Hogwarts Hogwart's. That way, I can have a character called Hogwart. You guy's don't like it so those ideas are off. It makes me hate you guys a bit but that's okay. I can live with that. 


	2. 2 A Weasely Reunion

W1: Calm down, we are only trying to understand. Where exactly is his corpse? H: I told you! How many times do I have to repeat myself? I absorbed him. There is  
no corpse! W12: Do not raise your voice at us, young man. I will have some respect here— H: You know what. Go bloody fuck yourselves. W1: Guards. Restrain him. We'll continue with him next week.  
-transcripts taken from the War Crimes Trial, 1/13/2001  
  
Ultimate Harry Potter  
By Oirams  
  
Chapter 2 A Weasley Reunion  
  
When Harry arrived to the Ministry, he was amazed to see how the place had changed. The walls scraped the skies, and the march of pikemen doing patrols could be seen on every gate. It was a fortress, built more for war, it seemed, than for government.  
  
The first gate lifted as a pimply, freshly graduated, cadet gave salute to Viktor. "Good mornin', Commissioner Krum!" Viktor nodded respectfully back and strode purposefully forward. Harry could not hold back himself. The exchange with the cadet had been so...formal. "It is protocol," explained Viktor. Harry laughed, mimicking the soldier's salute. "Stop it, Harry. You aren't veing vunny. This is vat I do vor a living," stated Viktor emotionlessly. "You do know of vat I speak of? Some of us have to vork in order to eat. Unlike you." Harry's smile disappeared.  
  
The second and third gate guards saluted Viktor in the same fashion, with fists over the heart. Harry nodded approvingly as the guards wand-scanned them-Just in case they were affected with the Imperius Curse and were under the control of Dark Magi. Harry himself had developed the particular spell the guards used, 'Libertannus', back when he had been a sixth year student at Hogwarts School of Wizardry. Harry leaned to one of the guard's ear and whispered, "Next time, young man, scan me with your left, and have your spare wand ready in your right. It's not wise to be complacent just because a person's come with an Auror. Nothing's more dangerous and stupid than complacency. Believe you me." As Harry and Viktor left, the young guard who Harry had given advice flipped them the bird behind their backs. "Can you believe that bloke? Tell me how to run mah business. The gall!"  
  
"He 'ad a scar. He 'ad a scar." said the other guard slowly. "It woz shaped like lightning..." "Oh, come off it," laughed the younger guard. "That can't be him. Harry Pott-He-He has, MOST definitely, to be dead by now. What with You-know- who's Curse on him and all. There's no way someone could survive a Killing Curse for ten years. Not even HIM." "Yeah, you're right," replied the other. For a few minutes, both remained silent, fidgeting like the fresh-out-of-Hogwarts boys they were. They both knew the stories concerning Potter. They had heard them during their sixth year at Hogwarts. The Seventh-year Slytherins—Damn their hides—had started spreading horrible stories, one of which described a terrible fire that had taken the lives of half Gryffindor's graduating class of '97. The two guards, along with their Gryffindor classmates, had then retaliated by dumping an old barrel of Itching Powder on the offending Slytherins (for some reason, the barrel had been discovered under the floorboards of Gryffindor Commons with the words, 'Have Fun –F.W. & G.W.'). Unfortunately, the day had been quite windy, and the powder went on EVERYONE—Including the professors. Gryffindors weren't especially known for thinking things through. The two young guards struggled not to shudder as the scariest of those frightful urban legends came to mind: The tale of the Gryffindor Train Massacre. The Death Eaters had waylaid the train heading to Hogwarts. When the traincars were finally recovered, only half of the Gryffindors survived, the rest were found inside the train's furnace, charred and melted beyond identification. "No," the guards said together, "Couldn't be him." They strained their eyes at the clock, as if trying to hurry it. It was a silly fear, but a real one. Potter wasn't a celebrity. He was bad luck.  
  
Harry walked behind Viktor as the endless corridors unfurled before him. "This reminds me of Hogwarts," remarked Harry. Viktor nodded, "Since Hogvort's vos the only place You-know-voo could not enter, the Minister of Magic thinked that copying the school's design vould be very excellent to do, yes? Ve must hurry. I believe the Governors und everyvun of vorth is already at the Round Table. Ve should not keep them vaiting." Viktor led the way past another set of guards, to where a large painting of a fat woman awaited them.  
Harry recognized her immediately.  
"Hello. Shouldn't you be at Hogwarts telling young wizards to obey curfew?" asked Harry mirthfully.  
The painting grinned and said proudly. "I've gotten promoted." The fat woman in the painting then realized that it was Harry Potter she was talking to and stood in silent awe before remembering what her job was, "Oh, yes. I almost forgot. Password, please."  
"Cedric Diggory," stated Viktor and the painting swung open revealing a large meeting hall. Harry took a deep breath. This was the War Chamber. Back in the Great War, all the plans for defense against the Death Eater Army had been drawn here. Back then, Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, leader of the Phoenix Order, had sat in the highest chair and issued orders around the table. It had been a hectic time and the furniture for the room had been clumsily supplied. The furnishings had been left unchanged. The round table still sat commandingly in the center of the room, but Harry's trained eyes could see that it had been magicked. The table would accommodate any number of wizards and witches, and yet retain its size. It utilized a clever method, one that was oddly familiar...  
"Hello, Harry."  
Harry gave a genuine smile this time. "Hello, Ginny," he replied. The wide, rich, gold-touched purple robes flowed regally upwards as Virginia Weasley, Minister of Muggle Relations, stood up from her chair. Virginia walked carefully to Harry; they had not seen each other in nearly ten years. "Brilliant," said Virginia, returning Harry's grin albeit done with streaming tears, "I had heard that you were on your deathbed...Oh, I'm so glad that you're still alive!--I mean..." "I missed you too," said Harry. They hugged each other awkwardly. It was not too long ago when Harry would have been overjoyed at seeing her. Somehow, he felt emotionally detached. He had been away for too long, and he did not want to assume any friendships that weren't freely offered. "It's been too long, Harry," said Minister Weasley, taking her seat. "Only ten years," said Harry, and then whistled. "Little Ginny Weasley. A minister. If Ron was here, he'd have been mighty proud of you." Harry added after a while, "I'm proud of you." Virginia blushed, "Thanks, Harry." There was a moment of silence between them as they both recalled their experiences at Hogwarts together. There was a heavy void where the memory of Ronald Weasley should have been. Ron had been Virginia's brother, and when he was murdered, both Virginia and Harry had been devastated. Like so many others, Ron had been a casualty of the fight against Voldemort's Return. Unbidden, the memory unfolded itself inside Harry's head. Ron had been reenacting his miraculous Keeper save during the Quidditch championships for House Cup, while Hermione had made busy fixing Ron's graduation robe, which had loosened BECAUSE of Ron's jumping from seat to seat like a maniac...It happened then. The train halted, the lights snapped, and the Death Eaters moved in...Even after so many years, the very memory of the incident still made Harry sweat and tremble. It was Ginny who interrupted Harry's sad moment. She had been a few years younger than her brother, and had not been on that train full of hopeful Hogwarts graduates. She hadn't watched helplessly like Harry had when they had begun to drag his classmates, one by one, into the furnace car.  
  
"I was gunning for being head honcho in charge of England's Auror Division," spoke Virginia, pointing a finger accusingly to Krum. She was oblivious to Harry's sudden depression. " But he took the job away from me. Bloody foreigner." Viktor Krum snorted and shifted his insignia as if snubbing her. Virginia grinned in spite of herself. Harry saw, with his astute eyes, that there was more than just friendship between them, and he felt his heartstrings yank a little. But it subsided quickly, he realizing that he would never be able to have a future with anyone, much less with Ginny. The Ministry had decided that Harry be the last Potter. It was better for the world, they deemed, that there should never be another heir to Slytherin. That had been one of most bitter in a series of agreements forced upon Harry. But there had been no choice. It had been either that or lose his freedom.  
  
Virginia Weasley, who was oblivious yet again to Harry's wretched looks and had been talking throughout, said. "—Not that I mind being a Minister, mind you but sometimes it's rather more trouble than it's worth. Day in and day out, handling the paperwork, the human resources...It's enough to drive a person mad. Daddy must have been insane or enormously patient. Really, these blodgers are so thick-headed sometimes—" Harry laughed, and then pointed to her that those 'thick-headed blodgers' were sitting all around the table and could, in fact, hear her. Ginny rolled her eyes at Harry but turned around to flash an 'I'm only kidding, folks!' thumbs up sign to the rest of the Order.  
  
Viktor and Harry went round the table, searched for their placards and then sat down on their assigned chairs. After awhile, the magick in the table moved Harry around next to Virginia. Harry grinned and then gesticulated to Virginia using the secret sign language he and Virginia's brother had devised: Is this table your handiwork? Not too shabby, eh? Virginia signed back, grinning broadly with full lips.  
Harry answered back that it was impeccable work and then began to search the Round Table for recognizable faces. Aside from Virginia and Viktor, the rest of the ministers and wizards of the round table were edging their chairs away from Harry as if he were a plague and to be avoided. "Where's Dumbledore?" asked Harry. "He retired five years ago. Said he vos too old for the job. I am thinking, however, he vos... Dumbledore's..." began Viktor. "Vell, he feels responsible for you. With all the rumours that haff been vritten about you, and you taking off, he thinks he haff failed you und.." "Oh, rubbish," whispered Virginia. "Dumbledore resigned because he tried to return your wand back to you and these tossers..." She pointed to Amos Diggory, Cornelius Fudge, and someone covered in head to toe in silver armor. And by the cut of it, Harry recognized it to be from Weasley Forge Number 12; the newest of the Excalibur Pro line. The price was exorbitant. Other than the military, there was practically no person or organization that could cover the cost. Harry wondered how anyone in public service could afford...Ginny snapped her fingers in front of Harry's face, trying to catch his attention. "...they wouldn't allow it. So Dumbledore resigned. And these morons let him. I was about to resign too but father made me promise not to do anything rash." Ginny's eyes flared up as she pointed again to the Silver Armored fellow that sat next to Diggory. Her voice became conspiring, and she bent her head into Harry's ear so that no one could overhear her. "I hate them ALL. Especially that Dr. Franken in the armor over there. He's the new Minister of Mysteries, and he's a prick through and through. Did you know what he said to me just yesterday?" She straightened up, mimicking a dry, dull, yet condescending tone, which, Harry guessed, was her feeble attempt at voice-acting. 'Oh, you're the new Muggle Minister? A woman, oh my. Well, there must be something to you. I mean, after all, I'm sure you're brother didn't appoint you the post just because you were related to him. In fact, you must be a hard worker. My guess is that you're a Huffle- puff type person. You have that goofy industriousness look about you. I'm right aren't I? You were sorted into Hufflepuff in Hogwarts, were you not?'" Her flaming hair matched the color of her ears, which had become beet red with indignity. "And then, he had the bloody balls to continue on, asking me to go to him immediately if I encountered any problems my 'little mind' couldn't handle. The bugger went like: 'Ravenclaws are always glad to help our fellow Hufflepuffs. And all the while, the pervert was trying to look down the cut front of my dress robe! Minister of Mysteries...bah...'e prolly spends his time reading blue mags, more likely!" Virginia, in the heat of telling her story, had rolled up her sleeves in anger, much like her brother Ron used to do. Viktor saw the telltale signs, and whispered warningly into her ear. She was a Minister and undue outbursts were unbecoming. She frowned but heeded Viktor's advice. She continued to speak to Harry but her whispers lost none of its intended ferocity. "And I swear, one of these days, he's going to push me a little too far, and I'll make him fart enough bats 'til his ass is baboon red. And then I'll take that doctorate of his, bash his head, and then string him naked on the parapets. And then spell him with boils. Lots and lots of boils. All over...I will, I tell you...Hufflepuff...How dare he..."  
  
Viktor sighed, flinching away from Virginia as she continued her gleeful, vindictive rambling. He looked at Harry with perched eyebrows, as if to say that this was what he had to work with. Harry realized then just how much he had missed having friends. He smiled genuinely again for the second time in ten years, "So who's the First of the Phoenix then?" "Are we all here?" a loud voice boomed. Harry turned around as a tall person stepped out of the door of light. In an instant Harry's hands balled into fists and only Ginny and Viktor's quick reactions kept him from launching himself at the newcomer. Virginia held Harry down by his jacket, " Calm down! I know you and my brother have never seen eye to eye...but he's the Head of the Order now. You should be respectful—" Harry jerked away and almost spat in front of Ginny's face, "Have you gone completely mad? You're saying that..." He pointed wildly at the man seating himself on the largest chair, "... that...psycho...is...the Leader of the Order?" His hand grasped for his side but the wand was not there; It had been stripped from him ten years ago when the public found out about his merger with Voldemort; the resulting uproar demanded that Harry be expelled from Auror training. He vaguely remembered himself crying when they came to snap his wand. It was too long ago for caring. But Percy...Harry remembered Percy all too well. Virginia Weasley darkened her face and straightened to her full stature. Even in her chair, she was tall, as were all the Weasley children. She said, with every word pulsing singularly, "Don't. Insult. Percy. My brother's a great man. You don't know what he sacrificed in order to gain Voldemort's trust. He deserves every bit of his success, and he needn't ill wishers like you, Potter." Harry didn't bother to argue with her but turned to stare hard at Percy instead. Percy's red hair was thinning but his figure was still kept as meticulously neat as he had in his younger days. Harry gripped the arms of his chair as tightly as he could; he couldn't believe how many things had changed in his absence. He nearly spat, "Don't you people remember what he did? He gave the Hogwarts train route to Voldemort!..He's the bloody reason you and I lost half our friends that day!" He gripped his chair so tightly, the pegs that held it in place threatened to bend every which way. It just isn't right, he thought, glaring jealously at Percy's shining Phoenix robes. It just isn't FAIR! Percy had spotted Harry, and although the shock was evident on his face, Percy still bowed; he was always one for formalities. Harry returned a smile, or a snarl-it was hard to tell—and waited for the activation sequence to begin. Percy cleared his voice, "Session five thousand three hundred and naught is held now! All please take your seats!" Harry's section of the Round Table lit up. So did many of the others until the whole tabletop was glowing blue with magical light. As soon as that happened, the light enveloped the Order, and the forty or so people were transported to the true Headquarters of the Order, a small cave whose location only the Head of the Order knew. The security measures are still enforced, mused Harry approvingly. He looked again to Percy. "Aaargh!" Harry's mind suddenly lurched as something deep within him surged hatefully forth. The world spun in green and blue colors. It felt like...every memory in his head threatened to escape from his skull. When the mental dust settled, he saw a horrific scene. It was the Hogwarts Express Massacre all over again...But Harry had not witnessed this part. This must be when they herded the Gryffindors into the furnace car, Harry thought. He saw a Death Eater pull open his mask...It was Percy! His face was ashen white and utterly passionless. With a deft move, Percy grabbed Ron's hair and was beginning to chant something. "No! Get off Ron! What are you doing? He's your brother!" But no matter how loud Harry screamed, no one heard. He was a witness trapped in someone else's memory. "Please, Percy. Don't kill me," sobbed Ron. "Please..." Harry heard Ron scream, struggling uselessly under a binding curse as Percy's wand dug deeper into Ron's skull. "NO!" yelled Harry involuntarily. The anger swelled in Harry until a voice whispered, 'DO YAH WONT REVENGE, MISTAH POTTER?' Yes. DO YAH WONT IT BAD ENOUGH? YES! Harry felt something stir within him. His blood boiled to an amazing heat, but quickly reversed so that he felt as though he were bleeding icewater. When Harry woke up from his stupor, he was surprised to find himself surrounded by wizards and smells of ozone in the air. "Harry!" roared Virginia. "What did you do?" She had jumped across the table and was now trying to stop Percy from bleeding to death. Viktor Krum, who already had his wand out, tightened the circle of Aurors around Harry's dazed form. "Harree J. Potter. You are under arrest for attempted murder of one Percy Weasley. Place your hands on the table..." Harry remembered himself standing up to protest and then, almost at once, six green lights blazed toward him. The spells hit him directly, blowing him away from his chair, and smacking him hard onto the cave walls. Harry slumped stupidly onto the ground; his eyes wide open from the intense shocks. Someone who was hovering above him said, "How did he create that spell? Isn't he supposed to be powerless?"  
And then another, more recognizable voice said, "I don't know. I think...Maybe it's safer to kill him..." How could Ginny say that? But before Harry could think on it further, the world slipped completely away, leaving nothing behind but unlifting darkness.  
  
Author Notes: Too many people have said that my grammar confuses them. Well. So I've changed the structure of chapter 2 now. Instead of Stephen King/Vernor Vinge, I've made it Daniel Steele/Stephen King. I can't help it. I really admire that bloke. 


	3. 3 Prison and War

"While Mr. Potter's attack on me was sudden, he carried no wand. I believe that was what saved my life. For certain, after his escape from Azkaban, I did station additional guards around me but as you all know, I had other, more pressing concerns at that time. In time, after his explanations, I did forgive him but I still harbored some reservations. Why did he lie about losing his magical powers? What possible motive could he have? Looking back, there was no way we could have possibly known that Voldemort had taken over Harry's body. Indeed, we all believed in Harry strongly, and since he swore that he had absorbed Voldemort in the Battle of Kent, the last and one of the bloodiest battles of the Great War (1997-2000), there was no reason to doubt him. I was so foolish in those days."  
  
-excerpted from "The World in Crisis" by Percival Weasley  
'Regarding the Tri-Ministry Tragedy during the Resurgence Conflict'  
published: January 21st 2030 by Lovegood  
Publishing  
  
Ultimate Harry Potter  
By Oirams Chapter 3  
  
Prison and War  
  
Harry woke up with a headache the size of France. He took a look at his timepeice and read from it: 8.00 A.M. "Dammit, I'm late for work," he yelled, jumping out of his bed—"OW!"  
His head hit the roof, and he fell back down, rubbing the resulting lump on his head. "What the..." Harry stood up carefully this time and looked at his bearings. He was inside a prison! His cage was a tiny thing, only just enough to accommodate him and at most one other. The blue glow from the steel rods, hinted that the cell was a makeshift one, and had just been magically constructed to house him. In the distance, through the shimmerings (the number of magic locks had caused the air to shimmer by now), that the room was circular, and in their, two guards revolved around him, watching him smartly and with shark-like curiosity.  
What was going on here?  
Harry banged against the steel bars with his fists, and then yelled, "Guards! Guards!"  
One of the more rounded of the guards waddled over. "Wot? Wot do ye wont?"  
  
"What am I doing in prison?" asked Harry with bewilderment.  
"Ye yankin mah chain..." replied the Portly Guard, "Ye don't remember et all, do ye? "The guard snorted. "Ye 'tempted to assassinate the Head of the Ordah, Mr. Percy Weasley! Yo' lucky yo' still alive! But ah admit, must've some mighty stones on yah. Not many w'd attack the Minister in frent o' a half-dozen Aurors, and all top level, no less. Well, at least, ah call it brave. Me friend ovah there call youse a dumb fool. And by thet confused look on yer face, ah think ah'm beginning to agree wit 'im." He pointed smartly at his partner guard who was lurking nearby.  
  
Suddenly, the memories came rushing back...Harry had been arrested and presented to the Order concerning the fact that Harry was alive when he should have been dead. He had arrived into the Order's War Chambers fully prepared to convince them that his continued existence meant the return of Voldemort, a being so evil that even death could not contain. But then something strange had happened. Harry's head pulsed in memory. What was the vision again? he asked himself. Something to do with Percy...  
"Ron! He killed Ron. Percy killed Ron!" Harry screamed and pulled the guard closer, "I saw him! I had a vision and he—"  
"GET OFFAH ME!" bellowed the guard, brushing Harry away. The guard's look said everything. "Save yer cryerin' fer the judge. Ah'm just doin' me job. Bloody ingrate."  
  
Harry slumped back onto the small bed, shaking his head, which was hurting more and more with each passing moment. And then he blacked out for the second time in as many days.  
  
Merlin's blade, I must stop these blackouts somehow, Harry thought as he woke up once again. It's seriously annoying. This time he woke up to a familiar face. Fred Weasley's blue eyes stared directly down at him, with a very obvious frown displayed across his face.  
"Dammit Harry! I told you not to go to them! Now, look at the mess you've gotten yourself into. Holy Moses," said Fred, pinching his nosebridge in frustration. "I can't believe you tried to kill Percy! What the hell happened? Dammit. I told you not to return! I told you!"  
Fred pace back and forth quickly. He stalked up and down the prison room like a general but the ceiling was so short that he had to hunch, a sight, which, in better circumstances, would have been comedic. Harry smiled, remembering for some reason, the first day he had met Fred Weasley—He and his twin brother, George Weasley had been driving their mother, Molly, insane with their practical jokes.  
  
"Honestly, mother, I'm George. You'd have think you could tell us apart by now." "Oh, I'm sorry—" "Just kidding, mum. I'm Fred—"  
  
"What are you smiling at?" asked Fred testily. "Our lawyer says you're in serious trouble and will undoubtedly go to jail...I've fired six lawyers since then, and I still haven't found one that'll say different. So wipe that smirk off your face."  
Fred crossed his arms, as if he were waiting for Harry to apologize for his attempted assassination of the Minister of Magic. Harry chuckled. Fred was a genius inventor, it was true, but the man had the logic of a child.  
"I told you not to come back," Fred continued. "I bloody told you but you wouldn't listen." He had calmed down somewhat but the worried look on his face did not leave. Harry would never be a replacement for the brothers he had lost. Although, there were times when Fred forgot the distinction.  
Harry shook his head, "I had to come back. You know about my returned minor invulnerability, right? I showed it to you that night after we closed the deal with the Lockheed group." He looked away. "I'm not saying that it necessarily means that He has returned...but on the slightest chance that he somehow escaped death...I have to be here." Fred closed his eyes and choked an answer. "I never believed he was dead anyways. Bastards like him don't ever die." He slumped down and looked away from Harry.  
  
Frederic Weasley was three years older than Harry, and although that was still young, white hairs lined his forehead. There was a dragged out look about him, a tiredness that dogged his steps. He was openly skeptical of Voldemort's defeat, and still trembled slightly at the mention of the horrid name. The Weasley name, over the course of its most recent generation, had become nearly synonymous with the word 'tragedy.' It was not surprising, considering how Voldemort had singled them out, murdering them whenever he had the opportunity. Casualties of war, some said. But it had nothing to do with the Great War. It was during Voldemort's Return and they had been killed only because they were close to Dumbledore and maybe, because Harry Potter loved them too much. Ronald, the youngest male Weasley, Harry's childhood best friend, had been burnt alive. Bill Weasley, the eldest, had died in the line of duty, rooting out Voldemort's agents in the Gringott's financial network. As for the third...he had died in the worst way. George Weasley, Fred's twin and original partner in Fred's and George's prank shop (Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes), had been kidnapped and tortured for days. They left George barely alive, but his mind was gone, driven crazy just like they had done to the Longbottom family. Not long after, George committed suicide. This drove Fred to change the purpose of the company he and his twin had created. Instead of producing laughs and pranks, he began to purchase and perfect weapons. After Voldemort was finally defeated, Fred attempted to revert the store to the joke shop it was, but he found that he couldn't. And that, too, was Voldemort's fault.  
Fred coughed and Harry turned away so that Fred could wipe his tears. "Ginny says that you magicked a Piercing spell on Percy..." Fred eyed Harry curiously. "Is that true? Can you do that? Are the other magics returning to you?"  
  
"I don't know! Everything's hazy. I remember my scar hurting and then  
  
I had a vis..." Harry remembered the vision vividly. He had seen Percy drill his wand through Ron's skull. It had been so real...like a prophecy or...a Voldemort Memory? Harry's link with Voldemort had been so strong that he could sometimes feel and know what Voldemort knew. But with Voldemort's demise, such instances had vanished and Harry had welcomed the absence of them, such as they were always painful and made him mind susceptible to influence.  
"...but I don't know what kind of legal defense we can pull here..." went Fred but he stopped. "You haven't heard a word I said, have you? Come on! I don't mind you dozing off during the inter-company meetings but this is your life we're talking about. I hear that most of the major players in the Order are OPENLY advocating the death penalty for you. It's serious Harry. They want you dead."  
Harry laughed, "So let them. Look at me. A wizard devoid of magic. I might as well die. Useless lumps of bollocks like me deserve to die..." He grew serious, his scar hurting more than ever now. He gazed at Fred's concerned eyes and wondered if he should—Not yet, he thought. Harry had no proof that Percy had killed Ron...And he couldn't bear himself to subject his friend to such news. "I have no idea what happened, Fred," admitted Harry finally. "I think I may be guilty. I just wasn't myself."  
"NO. You're just trying to find an excuse to die again. I didn't let you then and I won't let you now!" Fred hung his head from the effort, " God. I thought we won the war. I never thought they'd treat you like this...No matter what you thought you did, Harry. It's forgivable. If it weren't for you, England would still be knee-deep in blood...I won't let them do this to you. I won't stand for it. I WON'T!"  
Fred had a weird look on him, as if this issue meant more to him than it did to Harry. "Guard!" Fred called, and the guard came dutifully forward, unlocking the door so that Fred could step out. Not many people who weren't lawyers could visit an imprisoned man charged with attempted murder but Fred was the president of the prestigious Weasley Arms as well as brother to England's Minister of Magic. There were few things that Fred hadn't access to.  
"Where are you going?" asked Harry.  
Fred rubbed his nose. "I'm going to see Percy. If he doesn't press charges, I might be able to save your sorry ass."  
Fred was farther away now and Harry yelled, "He's not going to do that you know."  
Fred Weasley flipped his thinning gray hair backwards and for an instant, Harry saw the mischievous smile Fred had sported in his youth and before the War. "Percy's my brother. He'll do what I ask. Besides, if that doesn't work, I can always pull his pants down."  
"That's not FUNNY! Percy's dangerous! You know better than I—"  
But Fred was already gone.  
  
=========================  
  
Fred Weasley, rolled up his sleeves, and stormed through the Ministry Lobby hall. He reckoned, if he looked important enough, he would be able to get pass all the bureaucratic lines and protocols, and reach Percy in time to knock some sense into him.  
  
"What are you doing here, Weasley?" sprawled a dry voice. Oh, crap, Fred thought. I don't have time for this!  
"Hello, Malfoy," replied Fred, turning around slowly. Draco Malfoy, dressed in his traditional black Malfoy robes looked as if he were a throwback to the Middle Ages. But like all the Malfoys before him, he was abnormally rich and influential, and also, like all the Malfoys before him, an absolute ass. "You don't work here. Get out." Fred folded his arms. "Last I checked, the Ministry was created to serve the public. To serve everyone, be they monster or men. After all, that was what the Great War was ultimately about—that is, besides defeating Old Voldie and his band of Merry Men." Fred paused and then asked in his most dripping voice, "By the way, how is your father? Still in Azkaban prison, is he?" Fred gave a mock impression of sympathy. They locked eyes with each other. Their families had started their feud with each other generations ago, and the hate had carried over to this day. A Malfoy and a Weasley had once even married, making the two families cousins, but that had only made their bickering worse. During the Great War, the Malfoys and the Weasleys had fought for different sides, and had spilled each other's blood. As the Greek saying went, no blood spilt is like kinsblood spilt. There would never be reconciliation between the two families. There was just too much history between them. Their staring contest continued, both appraising each other like two roosters in a cockfight. Draco was slightly taller than Fred, but was skinnier. His blond hair contrasted sharply with his black robes, and he carried an aura of superiority wherever he went, as if he were disgusted that anyone but him was allowed to exist in the world. Fred, however, noticed something strange about Draco's personage. On closer inspection, Draco's blond hair seemed frazzled, and his black robes were creased as if they had been slept in. Anything that could make Draco forget about his outward appearance would have to be of the utmost import. Fred wondered suspiciously at what it could be. Could he have something to do with Harry's headaches? he wondered. Draco certainly had the motive. He had an unexplainable hate toward Harry that rivaled even the long lasting feud between him and the Weasley clan. When they had been schoolboys, little Draco had offered little Harry a place in his entourage but when Harry refused to, instead choosing to associate himself with Gryffindor-types, a long lasting enmity sprung between them. Fred, of course, had absolutely no proof of Draco's culpability, but when it came to Malfoys, he didn't think he needed any. Already, his mind was formulating theories, and all of them pointed straight to Draco. Just then, Draco spoke, startling Fred from his inner thoughts. "If you are going somewhere..." considered Draco dryly. "...I suggest you stick closely to me. Otherwise, you'll find yourself locked up. This is a restricted area, after all, but I trust even a mongoloid like you knows that. " "Call me that one more time, nancy-boy..." Fred growled, hands balling into fists. "Any day, Weasel, but I'm afraid that my time isn't as freely available as yours is. I only offered you to accompany me out of politeness anyways..." Draco began smiling, baring a row of perfectly even sharp teeth. "Of course, if you don't follow me, you'll never get to see that busy brother of yours. You're here to beg audience of the High and Mighty Percy Weasley, are you not?" Fred wanted to beat the smirk out of Draco but he had to concede defeat. The only way to access Percy was through the right channels, and for Fred, that channel was Draco. He grumbled and then began to follow obediently. Draco snickered, and strode quickly ahead through a series of locked corridors, guards, and obtrusive gates. The guards fawned, saluted, and bowed away at the sight of Draco's gubernatorial badge. This made Fred wonder seriously about whether he had made the right career choice. Business was good, but politics was power. And get caught up in Percy's world? He suddenly thought, nearly frightening himself. No thanks. "We're getting close to Percy's Office," said Draco, showing his Governor's badge to the last of the guards. "You better have a persuasive argument. When the news gets around that Potter's powers are returning, he's going to be forced to execute Potter on principle. He might even preempt the papers and announce Potter's execution via Ministry channels. Ridding the Potter threat is the exact thing he needs to get reelected, and I don't think he'll change his mind just because you're his 'dear old brother'. " "Don't you worry. I know exactly what I'm going to say...But what I really want to know is—Why are you helping me?" asked Fred as he followed Draco through the final gate. "We're trying to free Potter here...your nemesis...why in the world would you do that?" Draco was silent and Fred did not press the question. It was only until they reached the door of Percy's office did Draco whisper, "If anyone's going to kill Potter, it's going to be me. One day, he'll stop hiding behind his lies, and he'll return, with his full powers, back into the wizarding world. Until them, I'll do my utmost to keep him alive. And then I'll make him pay for his crimes. He'll die slowly at a time of my choosing. AT MY CHOOSING!" Draco hissed in great passion, revealing his pent-up rage. The Malfoy mask resurfaced an instant later. "Come. We enter your brother's lair now." The wide doors of the Prime Minister of Magic's Office opened up with a resounding creak of cogs, and the smell of old carpets came wafting out. Percy sat commandingly behind his Minister's Desk...just waiting. His eyes strayed over from Draco to Fred, and then back to Draco again. "Mr. Malfoy. I thought that...our meeting...would be private," said Percy. "Not that I wouldn't enjoy seeing my dear brother but a...civilian...should not be around while matters of state are discussed." Percy waved his wand and an image of his secretary floated in the air. "Mrs. Williamson, please accompany my brother to the lobby. Accommodate him with anything he desires—"  
"Fred stays," stated Malfoy simply. "After all, he has a definite interest in all this as well. We were, to discuss the matter of Harry Potter's trial, were we not?"  
Percy's face was emotionless but Fred had lived with Percy long enough to know that Percy was, in fact, furious at the moment.  
"Of course!" smiled Percy, "Sit. Sit."  
The chairs floated expectantly toward Draco and Fred, and as they sat down, Fred felt rather uncomfortable. The doors were shut, and he was surrounded on side by Percy Weasley and on the other Draco Malfoy. Fred wished he had his wand with him, but visitors and non-government personnel could not carry so much as a broom inside Ministry premises.  
  
"So, I suggest that we allow Potter to be set out on bail," initiated Malfoy. "A substantial bail, of course—"  
"No, that is impossible, Governor," said Percy, his face a mask of politeness, "He has attempted on my life. While I might be persuaded to forego the legalities of it—The Order of the Phoenix has rather harsher and unmalleable rules regarding assassination."  
"Wait, hold up—" Fred began  
"Ah, but since he is the Harry Potter, should not leniency be given unto him? Or an investigation, mayhaps?" asked Malfoy. "After all, Potter has had a history of being...possessed...hasn't he?"  
"That's right—" Fred slumped back down to his chair as he was once again disregarded by Percy.  
"Nonsense," said Percy. "Vold—Vol—He was the only one with that ability. So that assumption is impossible. It is more likely that Harry has finally snapped. His tragedy, his loss of powers, the loss of his friends, must have finally overwhelm him over the years—"  
"Now wait a minute—"  
"Nevertheless—"  
Fred stood up quickly, knocking his chair backwards. He moved so quick that even Malfoy was startled and had stopped in mid-sentence. Fred huffed, "Now you bastards listen to me! I don't want to beat around the bush. I'm not part of the Order or the Ministry. I came her to see that Harry gets a fair deal. You either free him or I'm going directly to Dumbledore." Fred glared at them. "What's it going to be, you nasty berks."  
At the mention of Dumbledore, both Malfoy and Percy fidgeted, and for a moment, Fred pictured them when they were younger. Somehow, so many years after their Hogwart's tutelage, they were still afraid of their old Headmaster, Dumbledore.  
"Fred. Sit down—'NO! Give me an answer'—I said sit down!" commanded Percy. "It's not up to me, Fred. I may be Head of the Order and Prime Minister but England is a land ruled by laws. I cannot disregard them just because of my past associations with Harry." Percy sighed, pinching his nosebridge. "You do not know how tenuous my position is...Elections are coming soon and this Potter crisis...It's going to be an issue. If you go to Dumbledore, my base will turn on me like hounds to the hunt. Don't get me wrong, I absolutely adore Dumbledore but he was never one to make the right kind of political friends. All I'm asking you to do, now, is to trust that I will do right by Potter. You do believe me, of course?"  
Fred eyed Percy and said, "What a load of crap, Perce."  
With that, he stormed out, leaving a rather shocked Percy in his wake.  
Draco laughed, flourishing his cape as he went after Fred, "Oh, my. It seems like Fred knows your tricks even better than I do."  
Percy frowned, his façade breaking as he saw Draco leave his office laughing that insidious laugh of his.  
"Oh, Damn-you-all-to-Hades," Percy swore, taking a large malt liquor from his cabinet, and began to pour shots for himself. The irony was that, for once, he had been telling the truth. The other Corner fellow was polling favorably, and Percy's fickle political financiers were restless. Any political wind in Corner's favor might tip the scales plummeting Percy into political ruin. The most important thing, he knew, would be the swing votes. The Slytherin-type voters, which had never showed any loyalty to either the Castor or Pollex political parties, would be hotly contested in the upcoming election. If Dumbledore and Percy were to be even named in the same Daily Prophet article, those swing voters would rush toward Corner, and along with them, his hopes for another term as Minister.  
Percy could not allow that to happen.  
  
"Mr. Weasley? Sir?"  
"What is it, Mrs. Williamson?" Percy glared testily at his secretary. He had told the midget woman to always knock before entering but the absent- minded fool always forgot. Were it not for her highly excellent family relations, he would have fired her a long time ago.  
"It's Commissioner Krum, sir—" Percy waved his hand. "Tell Agent K to Apparate in, then. He needn't announce himself every time—" Mrs. Williamson shook her head, and then answered with distraught reluctance, "No, sir...He's dead." Percy almost spilled the shot glass he held in his hand. His mind raced fiendishly. "Gather the Order of the Phoenix, Mrs. Williamson." "Yes, sir." "And tell our boys at the Prophet to hush it up until we can figure out the proper spin to this." "Yes sir." She turned to follow her orders but her earpiece began to glow as further news came in. "Mr. Prime Minister! I've just received news that the Ministry of France is being attacked by Giants!" "What!" Mrs. Williamson cocked her head to her left, listening intently. "I'm getting reports all over Europe. Let me channel Agent X through." She pointed her wand, mumbling a series of words over and over again, "Telescopo Vidi Alohomora... Telescopo Vidi Alohomora..." The image of an aged and scarred man appeared. 'Hello, little brother.' 'Shut up with the pleasantries, Charlie. What's happening over in France?" Percy asked concernedly. Behind Charlemagne Xavier Weasley was chaos personified. There were Mediwizards running around and the amount of blood and smoke in the air shocked Percy, who had never truly seen a battlefield before. "Giants, Percy. They crept up to Paris in the middle of the night. I don't know how...Merlin's beard, they're tearing apart the Eiffel Tower! The French government is in total disarray—", began Charlie—"Get those supplies to them Muggles first! They heal slower—"Percy, I can't talk anymore, there's too much fighting still going on and the rookies I'm training aren't combat- proven against giants. Send reinforcements, if you can—"  
"No. I want you to pull out. Along with your squad." Percy commanded.  
"But—"  
"No buts, Charlie. I need my ablest person commanding the defenses along the English Channel. The French are going to have to weather this out themselves. I'll send Delacour some of our Horned Tail Dragons but that's all I'm willing to spare until I have sufficient intel."  
Charlie frowned but saluted. "Yes, sir. Agent X out."  
Percy summoned other such viewing screens and as the images of agents started to appear in his room, he began to dictate to them his orders.  
"Agent Y here in Germany—The vampires are coming out of the woodwork—"  
"Agent T here in Norway—Harpies! They're enormous! The Yanks are trying to—'  
"Agent R...Werewolves...Lupin out."  
By the time Percy finished pulling back his diplomats, shoring up defenses, and sending out his scouts, it was nearly time for one of his monthly dinners with his wife. Percy was loathed to eat anything. His stomach churned like compacted garbage, and he had the strangest sensation that he was overlooking something important.  
Germany, France and Norway had been attacked viciously by a coordinated and vicious enemy...Percy was no Rommel but he knew encirclement when he saw it. Someone was following in Voldemort's footsteps.  
Percy tapped the Telescopo Vidi Alohomora box—called T.V.A.'s or Tivas—in front of him. The familiar call-fog rose from it, and he started a communication line to the only one of his Agents he could trust to handle the Krum murder.  
"Pruett? Are you awake?" he asked gently. The time might be evening in England but over in Siberia, it was most likely early dawn. The woman in the viewing screen scratched her T-back panties before answering. "This is Elizabeth, you bloody hoke. Who the hell are you?"  
Percy smiled. The woman must have been on another bender again for her not to recognize him. "It's Percy, dear."  
The woman began to stumble over herself, as she clawed for her work- robes.  
"Oh, I'm sorry, Minister Weasley, sir. I thought Lee was pranking me again...and..."  
Percy shook his head. "No need to apologize. Just get to Hamburg immediately. Commissioner Krum's had his throat slit over there in Kraut- land, and you're to be the pointman for the investigation."  
As Percy expected, the shock of hearing such horrible news passed through Pruett's system quickly, and instead of returning with a stupid question, she asked, "Respectfully, sir, this may not be such a good idea, you sending me there. I don't understand the German psyche at all. Maybe you should send one of the Abbots..."  
"Don't worry," smiled Percy. "Your liaison will be an adequate tool enough. And I've requisitioned him to be your new partner as well, so you might as well spend the time getting to know him. John's a little green behind the ears but—" "You've got to be kidding me, sir." Pruett's politeness vanished, and she was obviously displeased at being saddled with a new partner. "What is this—the sixth one? Why do you keep asking me to train your newbies? Do I look motherly to you?" She pointed to the pan of fried eggs that lay atop her bed, as a symbol of the general bedlam that was her flat. "Because they always come out of your crash course as more effective Aurors. Oh, come now. It can't be that bad. John comes from a highly reputable wizarding family,"—Percy ignored Pruett's groan—", and I'm sure you two will get along famously with each other." Percy began to receive another call through his wand. He hurried to finish his orders to his agent. "I have to go now, Pruett. Try to find Krum's killer as soon as possible. It's going to be a PR nightmare, as it is, and I'd liked the case to be half-solved by the time their media-dogs pick up my trail, if you catch my meaning. "I'll try my best, sir." Percy stared at her. "I didn't ask you to 'try.' Just do it. Percy out." He closed the Tiva device, and the conference call with Pruett ended immediately. He flicked out his wand, uttered the two pass codes necessary to retrieve any messages he might have missed, and was annoyed that the last four had come from his wife. Clingy woman, he muttered silently. Percy stood up from his wooden Minister chair, and walked deterministically toward his window. The view was magicked and it allowed him to gaze at places all over England. This was his empire. No one, not Corner, not some Voldemort-wannabe, or even the Dark Lord himself could wretch it away from his grasp. They would have to pry it from his dead hands. Even as he thought this, another part of his mind worked feverishly on a list of suspects or organizations that could pull off such a coordinated piece of international terrorism. Controlling magical creatures was not an easy thing to accomplish, and to do it under the radar of Percy's intelligence network...Percy began to review through what he knew. Someone was most definitely aping Voldemort, he thought to himself. Follow the logic, Percy...Come on... He had studied Voldemort's history intensively in school, and he remembered that, not long after Voldemort had attacked the countries surrounding England, the next target had been... Percy's mind suddenly clicked, his face frozen frigid in shock as if he had just realized a horrible truth. He rushed out of his office and began to yell: "Everyone! Apparate out! Now!"  
Just then an explosion rocketed the building and the inside of the place became a smoldering mess of fire, leaving nothing in its wake but death and destruction. 


	4. 4 Investigation

"Dear Mr. Weasley,  
  
Invisibility Cloaks During 450-458 A.D., King Vortigern the Terrible commissioned twenty of these cloaks from his wizard Blackmort. Unfortunately for Blackmort, Vortigern was burned alive before Blackmort could receive payment. Detailed accounts about Blackmort's life give no mention of these cloaks. Fortunately, we at Weasley Arms have obtained a sample of the aforementioned item, and are in the process of reverse-engineering it. Since the Dodo has been extinct for nearly six centuries, finding enough skin for our researchers to experiment upon has been quite a challenge. It is not, however, impossible to do, despite of what you have heard from Mr. Connors of the Weapons division. Mr. Weasley, I am confident in the outcome of this project. With the investment of six years time, I believe that my team and I can produce these wonders at will and, more importantly, at profit. Thank you for your time."  
Marcus Wyland  
Head Researcher  
Weasley Arms (Armor Division)  
  
Chapter 4 Investigation  
  
The Ministry lay in shambles.  
  
The West Wing of the Ministry was cracked open, as if a fiery tornado had been sent down from heaven to smite it. Even now, Mediwizards, Pyromancers, Insurancers and Aurors were on the scene, searching for survivors and assessing damage.  
  
Elizabeth Pruett stood quietly amidst the confusion, surrounded by aide-de-camps and assorted two-star and five-star generals. They yammered to her about the costs of damage, the incrementing body count, and the escalating situation overseas.  
  
She held up her hand, and everyone around her quieted. "Who wants to be in charge here?" "Well—" piped a pimply intern. She had been yelled at all day, and wanted to complain. "Great. Handle everything. Call me after you've finished." The intern's face lit up while the rest of the cabinet around her passed distressed looks among themselves. Pruett eyed the intern for a while and then shrugged. Aside from the occasional power trip, the intern was fairly competent. "Alright you bastards!" yelled the pint-sized intern. "I want this place sectioned off from civilians! The building is still tender! The only people I want dying are the ones from the bombing not from an accident that could have been prevented with some yellow tape and a plastic crossing. Move it PEOPLE!" Er...Pruett thought...Might need a little lesson in tact, though.  
  
Damn Percy. Why didn't I get the Krum case like you originally promised to assign me to, she swore even as her mind went over how best to approach the case. This Ministry bombing deal was infinitely more complicated than a homicide, and she doubted she would be able to get the results Percy had come to expect from her.  
At first glance, Elizabeth Pruett seemed like any other ordinary Jane. Nothing stunning at all about her features except for the jagged tooth she had at her fourth bicuspid (from years of opening beer bottles with it). The frizzy hair she had belonged to her mother, and her pale Welsh skin, supposedly, came from her father...whoever he was. Pruett had been raised by her mother alone, and she bore all the stubborn characteristics of single parent families.  
  
Whoever is behind the Ministry bombing, Percy had said to her, I have the utmost confidence that you will bring them to light with speed and efficiency.  
I wanna go home, she whined in her mind. The only reason she could still stand on two legs was because of Chunky, her Holy Thermos of Never- Ending Coffee.  
Where do I begin my case? Which lead should I follow? Pruett asked herself, gulping the steaming contents of the Thermos. I hate cases like this. Too many clues. Too few suspects.  
But then again, just because she hated it, didn't mean she couldn't solve it. She walked over to her car. Pruett cringed a little as the hood of her Peugeot gave a ranging sound as the man on it stood up in straight attention. She took a long drag of her fag and then threw it away, which was instantly picked up by her partner.  
"Pruett! I told you countless times not to litter the crime scene," he said, waving the stub of the Oval at her face. His voice was slightly accentuated by a native Germanic. Normally, it would be manly, but the boy was barely eighteen years old, and the effect was, unfortunately, highly effeminate.  
  
"Sorry about the fag, love," Pruett replied dryly, smoothly lighting yet another Oval.  
  
"Ugh. For once, could you be a little more professional? This is the crime of the century, and you're acting like its daycamp," he said disdainfully. "And please, stop smoking!" He plucked the cigarette deftly away, and stamped it under his boots, leaving a distinguishable footprint. "Littering." "What?" "You're littering, John," replied Pruett, stooping down to pick up her fallen cigarette. "Oh so it's okay for you to, but not for me—" Oddly enough, Pruett placed the stub into her pocket. What a strange bird, John thought. But Minister Weasley trusts her so resolutely...I wonder...Could they be sleeping with each...He chuckled wickedly to himself, and then followed Pruett to her Peugeot. "Where are you going?" yelled John over the roar of the engine. The car blazed off just as he stepped in. Pruett shifted into second gear. "I'm going to investigate. That's what I'm paid for, no?" "But the crime scene is back there!" "No. That was a war scene, silly. All you can really do is tally up the dead, look for any survivors, and then send the wounded to the hospitals. Collecting evidence there will take our sweep teams at least three weeks. So sit tight and let me do the thinking. Okay? Good." The car swerved around a building, the resulting acceleration nearing pushing her passenger out the window. Pruett's arm shot out, grabbed his belt, and pulled him safely back in. "Get your hands off my crotch!" Pruett grinned. "Oh. Sorry, love, my mistake."  
John adjusted himself, muttering the words 'sexual harassment' under his breath.  
Pruett sighed, and began to shift into fourth gear. She could not understand why Percy kept partnering her. It was inconvenient for her to make up excuses every time the full moon appeared. Sooner or later, even the dullest wizard—she glanced at John again—would notice and deduce the truth. "But first we have to find out who the enemy is. So we run down the list of usual suspects, " she said dryly. "And hope we get lucky."  
"Uh..."  
"Voldemort first, love. Mon dieu, what do they teach at Beauxbaton these days."  
John gave an offended sneer, and then sniffed pretentiously toward Pruett, replying, "I knew that...Hey wait a minute—Vol—Vol—He's dead! How are you going to find him?"  
  
Pruett stepped impatiently toward her pedals. Even on manual, at the speed they were going, it was still going to take an easy hour to reach their destination. But there was no way around it. Even the tiniest trace of Apparition or Portal magic on a person would trigger the numerous alarms, traps, and wards etched into the Azkaban ironworks. It was annoying but it was these types of measures that made Azkaban the inescapable prison it was.  
"Oh no, Johnny my boy," said Pruett. "He's very much still alive. In fact, we transferred him over to Azkaban four hours ago, right after the incidents over in the continent. Felt it was safer to have him locked up there."  
"That's impossible—"  
"We're going to see Potter first, you dolt."  
"But—"  
"Personally, I don't think Voldemort's possessed the boy. But, the Potter freak did try to attempt at the Minister of Magic's life so...We'll have to look him over just to be on the safe side."  
"And if he isn't the culprit?"  
"Then we go see a friend of mine who's in charge of the Krum murder."  
The reaction was immediate. "Krum...you mean the Viktor Krum. You're telling me he's dead? But he's...he's Merlin class!"  
"Ooh, big whoop. Be certain, a knife across your throat," said Pruett, idly placing the wheel on cruise control, "Still kills, ten times out of ten. Incidentally, from what the Minister of Magic told me, that's how our Krum boy went. Nasty way to die, isn't it?"  
John was silent, and Pruett couldn't help but smile. These fresh-out- of-Beauxbaton kids were so easily rattled that it sometimes took the fun out of it. Sometimes.  
The Peugeot flew along the Azkaban Highway. There was no traffic but as they approached, the wind howled more, and the boggarts and ghosts were the least of the things that hid in the dark.  
  
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Azkaban  
Built by Scott Free in 1710, this fortress in the Arctic served as a retreat for the eccentric inventor as well as a research lab for his students. Unfortunately, Free was accused of being in league with the wizard Grindelwald during the Inquisitorial Period of the Goblin Wars, and was summarily killed by the Auror team sent to arrest him.  
The place lay fallow for some time before James Azkaban, for which the place is named after, refurbished it and placed Dementors as its guards. Unfortunately, during Voldemort's Return leading up to the Great War, these Dementors rebelled. Azkaban still serves as a maximum-security prison but is now guarded by a coalition of forces unswervingly loyal to the International Confederation of Warlocks.  
  
"Stop reading the brochures, John," said Pruett, brushing the Arctic snow from her dragonhide pants. "For Nimue's sake, this isn't a field trip. Did you lock the car like I told you to?"  
John muttered 'yes' and trudged reluctantly along; he was clearly awestruck by the place. He followed heavily, as if savoring the echoes his boots made with each step. The cavernous hallway led to an even ginormous (if that was indeed a word) division, filled with rows upon rows of keys and assorted locking enchantments.  
The clerk, oddly enough, was a House-elf.  
"Is that you, Lizzy? Lil' Lizzy Pruett?" asked the House-elf, leaning over his counter. "Corwin hasn't seen Lizzy in ages!"  
"Yeah, well. Being an Auror is a full time job," said Pruett shyly. "I've come to see Mr. Potter..."  
"Hey, everyone! Little Lizzy became an Auror! Come drop a hello!"  
Soon, dozens of House-elfs swarmed over her, pinching her cheeks and there was so much High Elvish being said that John's ears began to hurt.  
"Uncle Jake! Uncle Snotwax! Corse I remember you," replied Pruett. "But I really must get to Potter—"  
It took a full hour before Pruett's House-elf friends allowed her access.  
"Snorla is wondering if that man is your boy-friend," said the House- elf who was leading her by the hand to a great black gate, which was presumably the true entrance to Azkaban.  
"You mean John?" answered Pruett. "Please. I wouldn't touch him with a ten-foot wand!"  
"Hey!"  
  
"Snorla does not think it matters. Snorla thinks Lizzy needs to be having babies soon. Lizzy is not getting younger, you know. And the man-boy isn't bad-looking, Snorla thinks. For a human."  
"Hey..." said John, who was getting a little tired of being talked about like he didn't exist.  
"Shut up, human," snarled the House-elf ferociously. John almost leapt for his wand when Pruett pulled him away mumbling a few choice words in his ear.  
"Oh," said John oafishly. "Magical powers, you say. Each elf a near Merlin class, eh? Interesting. Bu..." John listened to Pruett intently again. "Carries a huge knife you say. Yeah, right. Pull the other one. I wasn't born yesterday, you know..."  
Snorla smiled, wickedly pointing at a wicked twenty-inch curved blade that had appeared in her hand in a flash of green magical light.  
"Oh. There it is," said John meekly. He gave a weak smile and then faded into the background muttering, "I...just got punked...by an House Elf...Good grief...."  
  
After what seemed to be a marathon of a walk, Snorla began to slow her pace. She licked the floor, "Snorla's section be here. Now where is the Potter part..." The House-elf let go of Pruett's hand and pointed energetically to the end of the corridor.  
"That's where the Potter is, Lizzy!" said the House-elf, hurrying off. "Snorla has to go first and turn off all the traps so that Lizzy and the human won't get hurts. Snorla will come back soon."  
John waited for the House-Elf to leave before turning to Pruett.  
"What the hell was all that about?"  
"What's wrong?"  
"You know what's wrong! When the hell did you learn to speak High Elvish? And tell Snorla to back off with the knives! The last one she threw at me drew blood!"  
"Oh, she's harmless. She's only playing."  
"That's easy for you to say," replied John and then squinted his eyes at her suspiciously. "She's being mean to me because I'm a guy right? That's why she's all nice to you...She must be a lesbian or something." He became horrified. "She must have the hots for me!"  
"NO, she's not lesbian, you idiot. And why would a lesbian have the hots—jeeze, stop flexing, forget I asked!..." trailed Pruett. "Look, you really want to know my secret in getting along with House Elves??"  
"Yes! I'd like to live past my first case, thank you."  
"To make them love you is simple. All you have to do..." Pruett smiled and pointed at herself. "Is be half-elvish."  
She didn't wait for John's shocked expression. Snorla had come back and had taken her by the hand, pulling her along. Pruett unholstered her wand and stepped cautiously into Potter's cell.  
  
Potter's cell was a small enclosure surrounded all around by brick walls, except for the glass panel in the front, which had four holes, three to let the air in, and one for his food trays.  
Pruett stepped cautiously toward what was supposedly the most dangerous man alive since Voldemort. She was even a little anxious. She had heard about Potter, and had seen all the cinemas but she had never met him before. She found herself strangely excited...Just then Snorla screamed.  
  
Potter's cell was empty. "Where is the Potter!" cried Snorla.  
"Bollocks. Double bollocks," Pruett cursed as she holstered her wand.  
John who had just come up beside her, asked, "What?"  
She just pointed at Harry's cell without speaking. Snorla had opened the glass panel and was running all around the Potter's cell, with crazy fear. "Oh no," sobbed Snorla. "Snorla is going to get fired. Snorla bad. Snorla didn't watch her section carefully enough." She started banging her head on the bedpost.  
  
John hurried to stop the House Elf before the crime scene was contaminated with Elf blood.  
"Where's Harry?" he asked wildly, barely able to restrain the self effacing Elf. "This is Azkaban! He couldn't have escaped!"  
Pruett was not listening; she thumbed a device that was on her belt, and a small fog arose from it. "Telescopo Vidi Alohomora," she incanted and then followed with, "Percy Weasley." The Conference spell merged with the fog and soon, the face of Percy Weasley, Minister of Magic, appeared, rattled and irritated. There were black streak marks on the Minister's face from when the bombing had nearly taken his life.  
"Pruett! I gave you full powers of state to investigate and to administrate the Ministry matter. This better be important—"  
"It is, sir," winced Pruett. "Mr. Potter's escaped from Azkaban."  
Percy, who was handling three Conference spells and also dictating a letter, divulged his full attention to Pruett.  
She fidgeted from his piercing gaze, which seemed to last for an interminable time. Finally, Percy began to speak, "Very well. I want an APB out. Aurors, Muggle police, Order members, anybody you can get. I want everyone out looking for Potter."  
"Yes, sir."  
Percy sighed, taking out a bottle of whiskey from his table, and said, "And tell them...when they find him...to kill him."  
"Don't you mean, dead or alive, sir?" Pruett asked.  
"No. I said, kill him. With extreme prejudice."  
With that, the Conference spell ended.  
John was confused. "Did he just say what I thought he did?" He was frantic, "Is that even legal?"  
Pruett snorted, "Forget legal. Before the Great War, Potter spent a year in Godric's Hollow. I don't know if there's enough Aurors in the world to stop him. He's beyond Merlin class, John. Way beyond."  
"But he's nothing but a Squib now," replied John, sheathing his general use wand and pulling out a crossbow from behind his ear. "Didn't Potter say that all his magic's been burnt out ever since he merged with Voldemort. He shan't be too difficult to apprehend, can he?"  
Pruett eyed him sharply, "Not if he's been lying all along." She offered John a fag, and John, although not a smoker, took it shakenly between his fingers.  
Pruett thumbed the special Auror password device on her hip again, and felt the familiar tingle as it sapped at her magical reserves. She would have to recharge soon. What a goddamn pain, she thought.  
"Telescopo Vidi Alohomora," she chanted, this time, however, she called out the names of Aurors from around the world. She hesitated to tell them her orders—How could she tell them to kill a legend? After all, Potter could still be innocent. There was still—No, she thought. Truth was irrelevant. England was in war, now. And in war, it was better to be safe than sorry.  
"Alright, then," said John, after Pruett had finished her call. He cocked his Weasley Double Shot Crossbow. "Let's go kill Harry Potter." There was a devilishly eager gleam to his eyes that surprised Pruett. In her pocket, she fingered the cigarette stub that John had stepped on.  
"You coming with?"  
"I want to say goodbye to the House-elves first," replied Pruett, tossing her car keys to him. "Go warm-up the Peugeot."  
As John eagerly went to start up the car, she began to walk over to the spot where she had noticed a set of strange footprints.  
"Snorla, Can I have a brush, and some crushed chalk?" she whispered in High Elvish. By magic, Snorla appeared instantly next to her, with her wanted materials.  
"Snorla is going to be fired," the House-Elf complained. "Again."  
"Don't worry, Snorla," comforted Pruett as she blew the chalk carefully around a seemingly invisible track of footprints. "Potter's not going anywhere."  
Pruett patted Snorla on the back, comforting her as best she could, and headed out. She knew exactly where Potter was. But whether or not she would kill him, she'd have to find out.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------  
  
Pruett was deciding what to do. On one hand, she could vaporize Potter and probably get an award for ridding the world of a possible threat, but on the other hand...What? On the other hand, what?, she asked herself as she ran across the snows.  
  
She stepped in the car. The engine purred annoyingly, as if it were whining at her to buck down and make a decision.  
"Well," asked John, shivering from the cold. "Are we going or what?"  
Pruett pulled the keys from her transmission, and gazed at John in an odd way.  
"Give it to me," she said breathlessly.  
John smiled, quickly undoing his shirt, "Well, finally! I thought you'd never—"  
"Your weapon, moron," Pruett said sharply, yanking John's crossbow away and aimed it squarely at the backseat of her car.  
John placed his hands up in the air, "Hey, take it easy now...I mean, it's practically your fault for giving out false signals..."  
"Mr. Potter, you are under arrest," said Pruett slowly. Her eyes stared unwaveringly at the seemingly empty backseats. "PLEASE reveal yourself now. I do not want to shoot, seeing as how that would severely damage not only you but also the resale value of my car. I'm counting: 1...—She aimed her bow—...2..."  
John gasped, fumbling for his wand as a man with jet-black hair, wearing a tweed suit materialized in front of his face.  
"John, if you take your killwand out, I'm going to shoot you first," warned Pruett. She turned her attention back to the man that had materialized in her backseat. "You are Harry Potter, yes?"  
The man nodded his head slowly, his eyes looking carefully from Pruett to the crossbow she was holding. "Good grief," Harry muttered, "I'm going to get killed by a weapon I helped design." He looked to see if Pruett had smiled.  
Pruett was unamused. Stalling for time may have worked for you as a kid, she thought, but it won't on me, love. I've seen all the movies.  
"How do you turn invisible?" she asked quickly.  
"How do you know that I can turn invisible?"  
"How bout I shoot you and then ask you later?"  
Harry smiled uneasily and then explained, "I had my father's invisibility cloak refitted." He pointed at his tweed sportscoat. "It turns me invisible when I want it to. It's one of the benefits of being the vice president in a company like Weasley Arms. Listen, I can explain everything if you'll just give me a few moments of your—."  
"How did you get in my car?"  
Harry was sweating now; the Weasley Double Shot Crossbow was not the safest weapon to use, and worse yet, he was at the wrong end of one. "When Snorla entered my cell, opening my glass prison, I edged silently out. And then when I found out that you had a car, I followed—John, is it?—him. I was going to wait near the car, and knock him unconscious...But when I found that the car was already unlocked, I went in. Even had I knocked John out, I'd still have you to contend with. And with one Telescopo spell, you would have all your Auror buddies converging on the Azkaban Highway before I got fifteen minutes in. So I thought it'd be smarter to hitch a ride." He looked warily at Pruett's steady weapon handling. "But I guess I thought wrong."  
Pruett eyes darted over to John and growled, "I told you to lock the car!"  
"It was cold and I was in a hurry..." said John, giving an explanation that was rather sorry as excuses went. "I'm sorry, okay? Geeze."  
He eyed Pruett suspiciously, "Hey—How did YOU know he was here..."  
"I dusted the room. Potter's the only one of us that wears Nikes. All I did was follow his footprints and I pretty much knew the gist of his 'great' escape. And when I saw the familiar track of footprints in the snow leading to my car, I knew, somehow, he had gotten in." Pruett shook his head at John, disappointed that he had not at least observed the track of Harry's Nikes in the snow.  
Harry frowned, "So what are you going to do? I heard what Percy ordered." His brown eyes stared straight from down the barrel of the crossbow to Pruett's ambers. Harry furrowed his eyes and asked seriously, "Do I look like I'm any threat to you? To anyone?"  
"Shoot him, Pruett!" said John. "He still has his Parselmouth! Snakes might attack us at any moment..."  
Is this what passes for an Auror, nowadays? Harry looked at John incredulously, "Can I ask you something? What exactly did you get on your NEWTS in school, John?" Stall for time, he thought, feeling his golden tattoo burn familiarly. Stall enough time for the plan to work.  
"I got top marks!" said John and he started to list his accomplishments...in alphabetical order.  
Pruett winced. Okay. Great, she thought. Good going, John. Now he knows, without a doubt, that you're a complete idiot. Pruett winced again, thinking, And maybe he thinks I am too, by association.  
"Shut up, John!" yelled Pruett angrily. Harry turned his attention back to Pruett, ignoring the fact that she was pointing a foot-long shaft directly at his heart.  
  
"Escaping from Azkaban was the stupidest thing you've ever done, Potter," said Pruett. "Even if I did let you go, you'll not get far and you'll be dead anyways. If I escort you back into Azkaban, Percy's going to kill you on principle as well as demote me for not obeying orders. And there's the fact that I'm still not sure you won't go Voldemort on me. I'm under tremendous conflict here."  
Harry nodded. He measured his words carefully before he answered. "I'm sorry to have placed you under 'conflict.' But I have nothing to do with what's going on outside." The crossbow was still aimed steadily between his ribcage. "I don't have any idea of what's happened since my incarceration—All I know is that, Azkaban isn't safe if there's Voldemort trouble. I may be a magicless Muggle but I refuse to be a sitting duck." Pruett was still unconvinced.  
"Look," said Harry exasperatedly. "Call Krum. Have him vouch for my character. Hell, send him here and have him guard over me. I'd feel tons safer, believe you—"  
"Krum's dead, Potter."  
"What?"  
Pruett licked her lips. "He's been dead since yesterday. Someone slit his throat in Hamburg."  
Harry's mind whirled. If Krum was dead...then Ginny...  
Harry tossed away his friendly façade.  
"You are going to conference a call to Auror central and have them immediately send dispatches and military personnel to people that are, has been or have ever been associated with me. Namely: Cho Chang, Virginia Weasley, Luna Lovegood, and Neville Longbottom—Be quiet and listen up!—And, I will need you to get whatever people you have in Knockturn Alley to spread rumours that I'm located in Azkaban. Do it quickly!" Harry leaned back and waited for them to follow his instructions.  
Pruett laughed. "You think I'm going to follow orders from you? I'm the one holding the crossbow here."  
Harry glared at Pruett, his eyes fierce. The change on him was dramatic. He had switched from friendly convict to demanding overlord in zero to six seconds.  
"In one minute, I'm going to knock that crossbow out of your hand, and maybe kill both you and John baby over there," said Harry flatly. His tattoo was feverishly hot now. "I don't want anyone to get hurt, but I will kill you to protect my friends. Krum's already dead because of me; that makes me responsible. So either help me save the rest of my friends, or, so help me God, get out of my way."  
"How egotistical is that?" exclaimed John. "You think all this stuff is happening just because of you? Who the hell do you think you are?"  
Harry didn't answer him. His tattoo had stopped its burn and was only tingling now...as if in wait for something.  
"Thirty seconds, Ms. Pruett. Make your choice."  
"What's to stop me from shooting you right now?" she asked.  
"Do you really want to kill me?" asked Harry with suddenly baleful eyes. "When has the modern wizarding world ever issued a kill-on-sight order? Don't you find Percy's order the least bit suspicious?" He grew fierce now. "I'm the good guy, dammit! Always. All I'm asking for you to do is to get out of my way, and let me do the one thing left to me that I'm good at."  
"What's that?" John asked. He had his wand out. Evidently, Harry's threat had creeped him out.  
"Surviving," Harry replied breathlessly, tapping a series of measured sequences over his golden griffon tattoo. "And, by the way, your minute's over."  
"Pull the other one—" Pruett grinned and then fluttered her eyes as she slumped unconsciously forward into her seat. John did likewise, a small O of surprise marked stupidly over his face.  
Harry shrugged, "I did warn you," and then ordered into the empty air, "Toss them out."  
From outside, a creeping stranger unraveled his Invisibility cloak and revealed himself. His wand was smoking. He dragged the two bodies from the car and dumped them unceremoniously into the snow, piled up like matchsticks.  
"What do you want me to do with them?"  
Harry gave a very sinister smile.  
"Take their clothes off."  
  
End of Chapter 4 


	5. 5 Old Allies

W1: What happened to Harry, Ms. Pruett? That's all we want to know. EP: I told you a billion times! Why are you making me repeat myself? W3: Come now. You don't really expect us to believe your story, do you? We respect  
you as an Auror. Please respect us with the truth. EP: You know what. Fuck off. I'm leaving. You try to stop me and I'll tear your bloody  
heads off.  
  
-unfinished transcript from the Resurgence Inquiry (12/23/2012)  
  
Ultimate Harry Potter  
By Oirams  
  
Chapter 5 Old Allies  
  
"Take their clothes off," Harry repeated, pointing to the inert forms of John and Pruett.  
"What?" His rescuer asked, nearly guffawing at the impropriety.  
"I said, take their clothes off. There's at least one tattoo ward on her and the boy's bound to have hidden weapons. So strip them of everything."  
The other man nodded, and then proceeded to follow Harry's orders.  
"Expelliarmus! Accio! Expelliarmus! Accio!" the man chanted until the unconscious two were completely bare.  
The Peugeot's trunk was made out of tesseracts—or what the Corner Corporation called pocket technology—and had just enough room in it to store the two fallen Aurors.  
"Why do you want to bring them along, Harry?" asked Harry's Rescuer as he dumped all of the clothes and weapons onto the backseat. "They'll only slow us down, y'know."  
Harry shrugged and then scrounged around the backseat in search of Pruett's T.V.A. Calling Device. He found it, turned it over in his hand, and then shoved it into one of his own pockets. "We can't leave them behind in the Artic cold, can we? Plus, she's Percy's second in command...If I can persuade her to help us...."  
The other man laughed. "Right," he said sarcastically. "Of course, there's always a good reason for bringing along a naked chick." Harry's Rescuer started the car, and it began to pick up speed slowly as the tires spun out the last remaining snows from their threads. "Seriously, though. I think it may be better to leave her...When I was checking her over, I found numerous skinwards on her. At least four protective, and three I've never even seen before. Level five wards. It took some doing to get rid of them, too."  
Harry frowned. He hated surprises. "Are the wards a threat to us?"  
"Well, no...for some reason, they seemed to be inverted inwards. It's as if she's chained herself..."  
"Then forget about it," Harry dismissed. "It's going to take some time for Auror Central to coordinate that All-Points-Bulletin she ordered up to catch me. I want us out of Azkaban Highway by then."  
The driver nodded, and then cursed as he saw that the car had a manual gearshift. "Screwit," he muttered, and then began to lurch the car into the highway. Harry smiled as the car zigzagged its way across the snowy paths.  
"Who uses manual these days? Soddin' women drivers..." growled the driver ferociously as he strained to keep the car under control.  
Soon, however, Harry's Rescuer wrestled the mean Peugeot under control enough to maintain a constant speed. He looked extremely pleased with himself, muttering phrases like "yeah, who's your master, now" and "What you got now?" to the car.  
  
The car drove on with no one speaking a word as the golden tattoos pulsed out its message.  
(I really don't like giving information like this) The tattoos they both shared were Marks that were akin to magical telegraphs. They sent and received messages by pulsing a variant strain of the secret language Harry, as a youth, had developed with his friends. Some of the more ignorant Harry-mongers had pointed to it, saying that he had been branded as the Dark Lord's own. The reason for the confusion lay that Voldemort utilized nearly the exact same system, only that his Mark consisted of a black skull of death while Harry's displayed a Griffon in perilous flight. Harry had always called it Dumbledore's Mark and, in the early days, before his exile into America, he would call it as such to all those who would hear him out. But even the other people who had accepted the Mark hid it, and some even had them removed; it was just more convenient to do so. Thirteen was the number of people whom had willingly accepted Dumbledore's Mark. Only seven in total remained, now that Viktor Krum had been murdered.  
Their Marks stopped pulsating.  
Harry was the first one to translate the message, "Do you know how to get there?"  
The other scoffed. "To Hogwart's? Of course. I drove my nephew there one time when he missed the Hogwart's Express—" He closed his mouth immediately, remembering that the last time Harry had been on that train had been in 1977 at the day of the Massacre. "Oh, sorry about that, Harry. Didn't mean to drudge up the past like that. Honest."  
"No, it's perfectly fine," he muttered as he tipped his hat forward. He shouldered down, and began to nap. He felt strained. Worn thin, even. He could feel his innards slosh around, and he knew he it was only a matter of time before he would need to expunge the bad blood in him somehow—usually done by imbibing a Ricewater Potion of Controlled Regurgitation. Harry called it 'brainpuke', but Ricewater was the natural name for it.  
The car zoomed forwards to Hogwart's. For the first time since he arrived back in England, he was relaxed. Dumbledore would know what to do, he thought. Dumbledore would take care of everything. Yeah... Harry saw stars, and he barely had time to say 'Bollocks' before the familiar curtain fell, and he blacked completely out. "Harry?" The driver asked concernedly. Vaguely, he remembered that Dumbledore had told him that something like this would happen. But when Harry began to bleed continuously from his mouth, he pulled over immediately. He hastily procured a Penrose from the dashboard, but the small tissue soon became overburdened. The blood spilled over, soiling his sleeve as well as the tweed suit Harry sported. He fumbled out his medicwand, and as he quickly reviewed the advanced healing spells queued inside it, he realized how inapplicable they were to Harry's sickness. But then, he still had to try. He pushed away Harry's front locks with the wand, revealing the horrid scar underneath. The scar had grown, and he could trace the little lines snaking its way from the forehead, around the nape, and then circling toward the heart. Once the scar reached there, Dumbledore had told him, it would crush Harry's heart, and finally complete Voldemort's last revenge.  
The driver sighed, incanted several advanced replenishing spells, and then resumed the journey. Harry continued to bleed at intervals, but the driver did not stop to care for him. He had to get to Dumbledore's. The scar was advancing far too quickly, and Dumbledore had said something of a possible cure. Dumbledore would know what do, he thought, glancing yet again at Harry who was dribbling dirty, discolored blood from the corner of his mouth. He has to.  
  
Chapter TBC The lion and the Unicorn Were fighting for the crown; The lion beat the unicorn All around the town.  
  
Some gave them white bread And some gave them brown; Some gave them plum cake And drummed them out of town.  
  
The woman muttered two more of these schoolyard rhymes. . She was dirty, and her skin hung on her haphazardly. The will to live was clearly bereft from her and the room surrounding her shared the same type of dreariness. Cobwebbed, and furniture-bare, it seemed to be an unlivable place. In the center of this prison-like room, there was a rocking chair, and at most times, she could be found there. The rocking soothed her and sometimes, the voices would even quiet just enough for her to be able to sleep. This was not a lasting peace, but she was grateful for even the smallest respite. Her self-imposed prison lay at the very topmost of Gryffindor Tower's four turrets. No one dared enter there—not even the Ghosts that haunted the place. But sometimes, on a foolish bet, a Slytherin or Gryffindor would scale the long steps of Solitary Bastion, to investigate whether the place was truly haunted. When they saw her, they had one of two reactions. They either froze up in terror, or ran off screaming, in utterless terror. Her white-kissed hair, blood-veined eyes, and sinister smile were more than enough to continue the ongoing myths of Solitary Tower. The most popular theory was that she was the ghost of Voldemort's mother—she could only chuckle at the absurdity of such a notion but she would not come down to rectify foolish Ravenclaws and their research. The myths suited her. The fewer visitors she had, the better. A person like her, she felt, deserved to be lonely.  
Sybil. The Oracle wants you, Sybil. Wants the you Oracle, Sybil. Oracle the you wants, Sybil. Sybil. SYBIL! SYBIL!  
"Go away!" Sybil screamed. She clawed at her face until the scabs broke, and began to pour forth fresh blood. This time, however, even pain could not quell the voices. They were strong. Almost as strong as the insinuations that led her to her very first prophecy—the one that had destroyed her.  
  
That had been thirty years ago, and she remembered that fateful day to its minutest detail. She remembered how pretty she had been back then. Her hair had been lavender brown, and she had worn clothes of the finest Damascan silk...Looking back, she could only smile at how preoccupied she was with appearance. She had been a grown woman then, but, she realized now, Dumbledore must have regarded her as nothing more than a mere child. ------------------------Flash back section (haha)---------------------------  
  
"I'm sorry, Ms. Trelawney," Dumbledore had said, putting on his wizarding hat. "I can't hire you. Not because I doubt your talents. Oh no. To speak the truth, I've been wanting to do away with the course of Divination for a long time. Yes, um. Well, you must know how it is." He had then followed up that lame excuse with an ambiguous smile that was both mocking and polite," After all, not everyone is Gifted...like you." "Please, Headmaster," she had ensued. "I really need the position. Please..." She remembered how desperately she was in need for a job. But it had not been always like that. Her own mother had refused to tell her where the family fortune laid hidden, and by the time she thought to use Truth Serum, her mother had already gone insane...Dumbledore had commiserated but he would never allow an unqualified teacher in the hallowed grounds of Hogwart's. "Kindly let go of my robes," Dumbledore had whispered. "This is a public place..." "No!" she had replied. "You owe my mother! She gave you that Grindelwald prophecy! You owe her! I demand..." "Be quiet, woman!" Dumbledore had hissed. He could be scary when he needed to, and Sybil remembered how frightening the man's demeanor had become as he dragged her up the stairs and into a private room. "Are you mad?" he had asked. "NEVER EVER tell a soul about the Grindelwald prophecy. No one must ever know where I imprisoned him. No one! If I ever hear you even mention it ever again, I shall not be as forgiving as I am today. Do you understand me, Sybil?" "Yes..." she had trembled. "Good. You may stay in the inn for an extra week. I've made arrangements with the innkeeper, and he'll take care of your meals as well...And, I am sorry about your mother's condition. When things settle down in the world, her recovery will be my priority. You have my word."  
  
It was then that the Oracle first spoke to her. Her mother had said that it would come whenever She wanted, and leave when you most needed Her. There were things you can do to call Her, but mostly, it was luck.  
She felt the memory wash over her. The Oracle did not enter the soul calmly. She bludgeoned, kicked and bore into the spirit before making her predictions. It was not pain in the sense of the word...it was more of a taint, a violation of her spirit that would remain with her until the day she died. And maybe, even after.  
But, like most troubles in the world, the Oracle was something you had to invite first..  
The Voice had asked her, Do you have need of me?  
She had hesitated but Dumbledore was fast leaving and there were no use in delaying despite the warnings her mother had given.  
And so Trelawney called Her.  
And so She came.  
  
"THE ONE WITH THE POWER TO VANQUISH THE DARK LORD APPROACHES.... BORN TO THOSE WHO HAVE THRICE DEFIED HIM, BORN AS THE SEVENTH MONTH DIES.... AND THE DARK LORD WILL MARK HIM AS HIS EQUAL, BUT HE WILL HAVE POWER THE DARK LORD KNOWS NOT. AND EITHER MUST DIE AT THE HAND OF THE OTHER FOR NEITHER CAN LIVE WHILE THE OTHER SURVIVES.... THE ONE WITH THE POWER TO VANQUISH THE DARK LORD WILL BE BORN AS THE SEVENTH MONTH DIES." There can be only one, she moaned in her padded cell. This was all she remembered of her First Prophecy. The Oracle had obscured many parts from her. It was as well, for she did not want to remember. For every part of it was dangerous.  
Dumbledore had slapped her.  
  
"Fool!" His face had been livid. "Did I tell you to bring the Oracle! Of all places, in here..." He had then pulled his wand out, saying menacingly, "For your sake, pray that my scrying spell finds no unfriendly ears."  
"Scrying spell?" she had asked in bewilderment.  
Dumbledore had not answered her, his astral form had already projected out, and when it returned, the anger in his face had not diminished but instead, flamed even hotter.  
"You...insufferable...wench...Do you realize what you've done?" He had gripped her so hard that she had thought he had it in mind to kill her.  
It was only after the killings started did she fully understand what a huge mistake she had made. She had been overheard by one of Voldemort's puppets. Had it not been for Dumbledore's paranoia, the puppet would've transmitted the whole thing to his master instead of but the first two lines. But even that had been too much. In the following years, Voldemort exterminated family after family, one by one, all so that his reign would be free from the prophetic danger she had described. She had felt so responsible. Had it not been for her prophecy, there would have been no Herod. Her hazardous use of her powers had resulted in orphaning children such as Potter, Longbottom, Bones, Abbot, Everfry, and others whose name she had long forgotten. She sobbed again, clutching her heart, and recited again the rhymes that seem to soothe her pain-wracked psyche. She would need an Obliviate performed on herself again and soon.  
Suddenly the door opened, and the resulting light flooded Sybil's room. Her irises burned and as she constricted her pupils to adjust, she saw a figure approaching her from the doorway.  
"Who's that?" she cried alarmingly. "Go away! Don't hurt me!" She fell off her rocking chair, and scampered animally away into a dark corner. "I didn't mean to! I didn't mean to..."  
The old man at the doorway only smiled, "What has been done is done, Sybil. Do not blame yourself for things that would have happened, regardless of your own doings. Believe me, man is never as important as they place themselves." The man's tone was light, and demure, "But...it does not mean that we should not try." He held out an inviting hand. "Arise. The time of self-loathing is done for. There are many questions I have, and they are only answerable by one with Seer's blood. Return to me, Sybil Trelawney, I beg of you."  
"No...I can't...There's so many voices...they all want to tell me things...horrible things..." she began but her visitor had entered the room now, and she glimpsed him in full. "Oh, Albus, you're so..."  
Revealed before her, was an enfeebled man. Soft blotches of purple littered over his exposed skin like a sickly, unripe melon, and the man's eyes, which had once been remarkably brilliant, were half-filled with glaucoma and forgetfulness. She was shocked at the change. The last she saw him was five years ago, and back then, he was aged, but not...decayed.  
Dumbledore, chuckled, his long flowing beard curling along with his smile. "I'm what, Sybil? Old? Yes...I am and have been for a long time now." He lifted her up to stand, all the while pulling toward the light. "Unfortunately, I will have my rest soon...whether I want to or not." He paused, leaning heavily into Sybil. "Will you help me finish a few things? There is much to do, and, loathe that I am to admit it, I cannot go it alone anymore." The sight was more than Sybil could bear. Dumbledore was so small, so hunched, and so gaunt...this was no great wizard demanding obedience. This was a sick, and dying man, humbling himself before her.  
"Oh, Albus." She hurried to support the old man before he could fall down. The climb up Solitary Bastion was a long one, and for a man in his condition, it would have been a nearly insurmountable task. He wheezed, and coughed uncontrollably before speaking, "Thank you, Sybil."  
And then, silently, the two walked down the stairs.. He had been dying for quite some time now, and it seemed unworthy for such a great man to die in such a slow fashion. Fortunately, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, had lived a fulfilling life, and everywhere he went he lacked not friends, and every need he had was granted by those same stalwarts.  
Dumbledore's office lay in speckled gold across the nameplate of a door. Sybil used her free hand to wipe the dust that had accumulated on the plaque, and then trudged in, Dumbledore in tow. It is time I put my affairs in order, he mused, allowing Sybil to place him on gingerly into his deskchair.  
"What is it that you want me to do?" asked Sybil, her brown eyes glistening with worry.  
Dumbledore leaned back, resting a spiny hand on the bauble around his neck. He had guarded the world for over three centuries, and there was still much to be vigilant over...He summoned Fawkes, his phoenix to him. The bird nuzzled him, worried. It understood neither death nor sickness. It knew only that something was terribly wrong with Dumbledore's lifeforce, and that the paleness of his skin could not be healthy. Are you molting?  
"No, my loyal bird. I am not molting." Dumbledore chuckled, and then blanked out, becoming befuddled to the point of forgetting his own self. It took a nudge from Sybil to wake him from his temporary stupor. He smiled apologetically, but inside, he was angry with himself for lapsing again. He activated the bauble labeled 'Pensieve', and felt the virtual memories supplant his own decaying synapses. He hurried to give Sybil his commands. The Pensieve would normalize him, but the spell taxed the user's energy greatly—energy he had very little of these days. "I need you to help Arthur Weasley after I am gone. I shall be handing him my Headmaster Position, as well as the reins of leadership." He coughed loud and long. As usual, blood followed it, but quickly he hid it so that Sybil would not see. "He is able, if yet sometimes riddled with self-doubt. I hope you can help guide him."  
"But I haven't the qualifications!" Sybil answered.  
"Nonsense," stated Dumbledore. He fed Fawkes a piece of bread before he continued, "Have you ever known me to be wrong?"  
"No," Trelawney admitted, but her look was doubtful.  
Dumbledore closed his eyes. He did not know for how long but when he opened his eyes, Trelawney was making tea, and there was sunlight sprawled over his desk. I must hurry, he thought.  
"I am expecting some visitors, as well. I have summoned the usual Seven but whether or not they can all come, I do not know...Mr. Malfoy, too, will attend. I want you to keep an especially close eye on him, Sybil. I trust him...yet his mind is something that I cannot fathom. He may betray my cause, yet be convinced he is furthering it." He took several shallow breaths, straining hard to remember his chain of thinking. "Also...arriving will be the representatives from France, Norway, and Germany...and also the Creeveys." His eyes sparkled momentarily with delight. "The Creeveys! Please remind me to give Luna a present for her young one. Every time I see here, I keep forgetting about her little Janey's birthday. I'm a bad godfather, aren't I?"  
Dumbledore trailed off into sleep once again, prompting Trelawney to finish the duties she had assigned herself. Sybil was worried. He had gone much farther into senility than she had first surmised. Only the power of the glowing Pensieve, a Memory Artifact, allowed Dumbledore any semblance of logical thinking. But in the long run, the Pensieve would be useless. The Pensieve Spell was Ancient Magic. And Ancient Magic, Sybil knew, always came with a price. Just then, Dumbledore snorted awake, nearly causing her to drop the teacup she held. "Most importantly, Mr. Creevey's younger brother, Dennis, will be bringing Harry with him. Oh...there are so many things I want to tell that boy..." Dumbledore continued. "Bring them all to my office here. I will have to instruct them, but, at certain intervals, you must remember to replenish me. And, remember, do tell none of the visitors my true condition." Dumbledore's voice was serious, and commanding. "Do you understand?" "Yes, sir," she answered. "Good. Wake me when they have all arrived." "Yes, sir," she said again softly, taking a blanket from the coat rack, and wrapping it gently onto the narrow shoulders of the once-great wizard. She sat back down, and watched silently over Albus. Trelawney wasn't the brightest person in the world, but she knew why Albus had summoned her away from her self-effacement. If he had been lucid, he would have told her to use her power again. To foresee the future. To bargain with the Oracle. She finished her tea solemnly. Just because she could, didn't mean she should. It was Ancient Magic. There was a price to be paid, always, for the use. The last time Trelawney had dared call the Oracle, it had resulted in so much death and suffering...Trelawney peered down into her cup's tea leaves, and began the first in what would be a series of calculations. The power of Oracling had more to do with the mathematics of probability than it had to do with being of Seer's blood. The times needed to be calculated to the utmost precision, and the invoking done subtly. It had to be coaxed, circumvented, and even then, it was not for certain. The tea leaves gave the sign of the Capricorn, as well as producing the starting five digits needed to begin the Arithmancy. She wrote them down on her palm, and then headed over to the window to compare them with the sky. Her starcharts were not needed; she having memorized most of them ages ago. But the pre-dawn sky was filled with uncertainty, and she could barely measure the distance between the planets much less attempt the times of their aphelion. Firenze will help, she thought but in her heart, she was doubtful. The centaur was still angry with her, and she did not want to ask him any favors if she could help it. He had not understood about the Voices. He had not understood why the Oracle would demand her to seclude herself off from everyone. His wrath had been uncontrollable, and he had even told her to that he never wanted to see her again. But Trelawney had been his wife...surely that would count for something. Sandra should be seven years old by now, she thought. Only three years left before the Oracle would allow her to see her own daughter...How she hungered for that day. If only Firenze could understand about the Gift.... She sighed, and remembered again what her own mother had told her about the power of Prophecy. She regretted now that she had not listened more closely.  
  
"My daughter," her mother had lectured. "Do you know what makes the Ancient Magic so much different than the Modern?" "Ancient Magic is more powerful!" Little Sybil had replied. Her mother had not returned her smile. "Yes. Powerful. Infinitely so. But it comes always at a terrible price. The greater the power, the greater its influence, the more one has to pay for it. How much will you be willing to bleed, I wonder? You, dear, have seen me gain fame with the power but you have not seen the dark side." Her mother's face had become menacing, and foreign. It had given her nightmares for weeks. "There have been demands made of me, sacrifices I've long forgotten to keep my sanity...Be careful! Be wary! Do not use the Oracle unless you MUST. But do not be afraid to use her. When the day comes for you to take the reins of Prophecy, you must not let the price deter you." Sybil remembered the flourish her mother had. How wonderfully majestic, and fear-inspiring she had been before her insanity. "Our power is like no other. It changes the course of the future, shapes it, bends it to our will...If you deem the cause worthy enough, call upon the Oracle in spite of whatever she demands of you.. Remember, you must..."  
  
...must do what you can when you can, Trelawney told herself. She lifted up her dusky robes, and hustled away. There was much to do.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------- (Two guitars strum solemnly) Have you ever... Lost your way? Have you ever... Feared another day?  
  
Have you ever... Misplaced your whole life Watching This world leaving you...Behind  
  
Have you ever? Worn thin... Have you ever? Never known...where...to begin Have you ever... Lost your belief Watching your faith...Turn to grief  
  
"Are you all right?" asked Dennis Creevey concernedly as he activated the landing gear for the car. He was still unused to the manual controls, and to say he 'landed' the car was like saying that 'anvils were bouncable.' The crash wasn't too bad; in fact, it seemed just what Harry needed because the shock jolted him unerringly awake. Dennis ignored the fact that he had just made the world's first reverse, sideways landing, and asked again, "Are you all right?" Harry glared at him, and then began to check himself for injuries. Chagrined, he found caked blood stains all over his clothes; the car stank of him. Voldemort's curse must've acted up again while I slept, he thought as he wiped the coagulated filth off his chin. What he regretted most was the fact that Dennis had seen him in his weakened state. To Dennis, he was still an undefeatable hero, one that could do no wrong. No one could, in reality, live up to that image of purity but Harry would do his best, if only to justify Dennis' faith in him. "I'm okay, mum," replied Harry with a smile.  
  
Won't you...Won't you give? Won't you give a man?...Give a man... A Home.  
  
In a world, That is unwhole You have...got to find...just to... Keep your soul  
  
The music faded away, and a clear, sharp voice came through from the raddy. "Well, that was Ben Harper playing his new song 'Give a Man a Home'," announced the wand-radio jockey. "We're giving away tickets to their SOLD-OUT concert, so owl or wand-mail us at 1230 Diagon Alley Tower to enter for a chance to win! We have to warn the contestants beforehand that there will indeed be both Muggles and Wizards at the shindig, so absolutely NO MAGIC will be allowed—" Dennis turned off the raddy, and wheeled himself axially so that he could face Harry. He glared, "Don't you get smart with me. If you're still feeling woozy, we can put Dumbledore off for another hour or so until—" "For Merlin's sake, shut the fuck up. I'm FINE," replied Harry, unbuckling his seat belt. "Really. I'm fine." Harry flashed another false smile; in truth, he was more than a little irritated at being coddled. He wasn't an invalid, and he disliked being treated like one. He stepped out of the car but ducked his head back inside the car's cabin to ask jovially, "Are you coming or not?"  
With a few grumbles, Dennis hoisted himself up from his seat, and then launched himself out the car. He made to follow Harry but was interrupted. "Not so fast," said Harry, holding up a dirtied hand. He hadn't had a bath, and even his own nose wrinkled from smelling himself. But before he would do anything, he had to make sure... "The two Aurors in the trunk. I can't have them waking up before I figure out what to say to them. Did you enchant their minds with a..."  
"Sleeping charm?" Dennis snickered, "Of course I did! What kind of moron do you think I am?"  
"The kind that's careless," replied Harry seriously. "If they escape, I'm as good as dead. Hogwart's has almost the exact same magical repressors as Azkaban, and it'll only take a word from Auror Central to completely blockade this place. So would you please go and make sure their binds are secure?"  
"Oh come on, do I really have to—"  
"Yes," Harry replied in exasperation. "Really. If your brother were here, he'd have it done by now." Harry's quip had its intended effect. Dennis Creevey and his older brother, Colin, were fiercely competitive with each other. So much so that they even contested on who idolized Harry more, which Harry had always thought was strange... Meanwhile, Dennis sped off to complete Harry's orders. Harry watched the boy circle theatrically around to the car's trunk, where the captives were stored. He popped it open, strengthened the charms on the two still-unconscious bodies, and then ran back to Harry, with his face bright as if looking for approval. "Good job, Dennis," Harry gave obligingly. Dennis beamed like a schoolboy, and then skipped happily away. Bloody dope, thought Harry. That had always been the type of person Dennis was—Simple and easygoing. Harry wouldn't have it any other way. Still grinning, Harry hurried to catch up with the younger man. He picked up his trouser legs, and lowered himself gently into the waters. From where they stood, the sun was just beginning to rise over them, and the rays casted golden, purple shadows over the banks, highlighting each and every reed with quiet displays of what Harry could only describe as the magic of Nature—It was exactly like what Harry remembered the secret entrance to have been like. Even the castle of Hogwart's itself seemed unchanged. The castle loomed in the far distance, magnificent and dominating. Its four towers of Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and...Slytherin seem like ancient behemoths, immortal and unyielding, unfaltering, and beyond all reproach. Here, the Gods of Knowledge resided. Here, Magic, the Wild, was learned, broken, and then tamed. Here, sleeping half-naked in their beds, and snoring peacefully were pudgy boys and dainty girls, who would one day be the future of all Britain and beyond. Harry could only look back and wonder how he could have let such a wonderful experience slip him by unappreciated. "Oof!" Dennis had just fallen on his face—Harry gave a huge laugh, and then helped the red-faced youth back to his feet. Gallagher robes were eveningwear, and while it looked nice, it was too delicate for trekking through swamp and branch. Harry did not bother to explain the difference to Dennis—Not that it would do any good if he did. Dennis had OFD, a condition that affected mostly genius wizards. They would grasp the most far out concepts, but have trouble gauging the correct price of a candy bar. OFTEN FUDDLED DISORDER could be controlled with Potions but Harry knew that Dennis loathed the taste of it, and would never drink any innovation that came from Dr. Snape. Dennis was hugely biased against the man. The Potions Master had marked his essay with a failing grade, and he had never really forgiven him.  
  
Good times that will never come again, he quoted to himself remembering a poet whose name escaped him. Never again in the darkest time. For we all live but an instant in God's mind. "Harry, come on. Don't just stand there, help me get the branches off the tunnel entrance!" Harry helped break the branches off the seldom-used entrance, and, as he stepped into the dark tunnel, he had a pang of nostalgia. If only I could turn back time, he thought uselessly. If only...Harry stopped thinking. He had contemplated suicide once before, and he had sworn to his friends that he would never do so again. He wasn't brave enough. "We're here, Harry," said Dennis as he pushed past the knight statue guarding the way in. Hogwart's. Harry was finally home. "Yes, we are." Harry breathed it in. "Yes, we are." 


	6. 6 Old Enemies

Alastor Pruett Hogwarts, History Class, Fifth period Slytherin Seventh Years  
  
"Not much is known about Harry Potter after his part in the Great War(1997- 2000). Some say, he flew away into the universe in search of greater truths, others say he went overseas to fight other evils. When he resurfaced, ten years after the Battle of Kent, the world immediately entered into another turmoil. Does anyone know what it was?"  
"Very good, Mr. Hagrid. From late 2010 to early 2012, the world was plunged into another war. The Death Eater Resurgence, or Resurgence as it was called, claimed the lives of at least three thousand wizards, and untold numbers of Muggles. Their army of giants, chimeras, harpies, and other dark creatures came forth and laid waste to whole countrysides. But, for reasons alone, after the wintry January month of 2012, their attacks began to cease, and their movements became confused and disorderly. One of my ancestors, Elizabeth Pruett, led the final march into their secret stronghold located in Croatia, and apprehended their leader, thereby ending the resurgence."  
"It is curious to note that Harry Potter disappeared during this Resurgence, and that there are no accounts of what he did during this time. The only passing mention of him is in the twelve volume anthology written by the late Percy Weasley—which, as an historian, I find to be utter drivel."  
  
Ultimate Harry Potter  
By Oirams  
  
Chapter 6 Old Enemies  
  
The Hallowed Halls of Hogwart's. The air was foul. Like the smell of age-old parchment coupled with the acidity of uncleanly children. As it should be. The smells had presided over Hogwart's for nearly a millennium, and it would continue to do so, until its very last breath.  
Harry took into himself huge wafts of this pungent air, and then thought to himself: God, that smelled good.  
"Harry?" repeated his companion for the fourth time. "Where are you going? Dumbledore's is this way."  
"Oh," said Harry apologetically. "It's just...this place...well..."  
Dennis smiled knowingly, and began to lead the way once more. The long winding stairs unfurled like political posters as they flapped nonchalantly into decidedly mazelike paths. It was absurdity to the Nth degree. Mobius corridors that led absolutely nowhere. Hallways that often wrote their own graffiti. To any sane person, it was utterly inefficient. But to its users (the students that would be abounding here soon) it was something new, something to entertain them as they ambled from classroom to classroom.  
"Are you sure you can do this?" Harry asked. "It'll only take a second to retrieve the Marauder's map from—"  
"Of course, I can! I'm Dennis, remember!"  
Harry conceded. After all, Dennis did love puzzles.  
Unfortunately, his affinity for it did not translate into expertise.  
  
Dennis' face was sheepish, such was his embarrassment. "Sorry, Harry, I think we're..." "Excuse me, sirs. Are you lost?" Who? Turning around, Dennis saw to whom the high-pitched voice belonged. Oh, a student. My god. What the hell's he wearing? The Boy gave the word 'gaudy' a whole new meaning. He dared to wear a leather vest-Not just any vest; it had hot pink fringes and...get this...was totally orange. Even his sandals did not escape Dennis' notice. But then, how could it? The Boy's shoes were practically emitting ultraviolet rays. The clincher was his hat, however. The Boy sported a straw one, with a sash over it that had many weird, homemade items sewn onto its green surface. From key chains to zippers, and, of course, the quintessential component in all good hats, neon purple feathers-manner of animal had neon feathers?  
  
"Hello, kid...We're...uh...here on special business, you see...er..." started Harry as he tried his hand at distraction. He was not very good, and after a few stuttering attempts, it was Dennis who had the proper response. "Don't you mind who we are. Aren't you past your curfew?" Dennis had two hands on his hips. He was trying his mostest to look authoritative. "Second years aren't suppose to be out this late, as I recall." The Tall Boy laughed. His voice was thunderous. "Oh no. I'm not due for Hogwart's 'til for another year. Pa says I jerst tall for me age." The Boy narrowed his eyes before whispering conspiratorially, "Tho', like you, I'm not 'posed to be here either. How bout we both keep hush hush bout this little running on each other. Laters." The Boy gave his newfound friends a knowing wink and then ran off. He was fleet-footed but every step he strode was off-kilter and the fact that he hadn't plummeted down the stairs had to be due to some extraordinary gift—namely, luck. Harry ignored the peculiarity. The Boy was still growing, and the ungainliness was to be expected. After all, Ron...had been the same way. "Harry, are you all right?" "It's nothing. Come on. Let's be on our way." Remember when we used to play hide-and-go-seek here? You always let Hermione find you. You old softy. The memory played fanciful in Harry's head. These fantasies were unhealthy, Harry knew, and he struggled to forget. The stairs had fled again, forcing them to map yet another path up the winding tower. While the maze gave Dennis some pleasure, Harry was not so easily amused. I don't have time for this. Ever since he had arrived in England, Harry had not been well. And, right now, he felt the entirety of his disease. He coughed and felt a slimy aura threaten to escape from his bowels. He pushed it down. It was his 'bad blood' acting up again. His sickness. He didn't mind the death it omened but the inconvenience of it was annoying. Harry swallowed the filth all the way down to his stomach, where it fizzled and cracked. Morning class would soon begin, and he did not want the students to neither smell nor see his blood. For some reason, this was desperately important to him.  
"Do you need a moment? To compose?" asked Dennis. "You seem a bit off to me, like you're about to throw up or something—Bollocks.."  
Harry eyes narrowed and his mouth began to retch. Slow at first then torrential. It smelled almost as bad as it looked.  
Dennis tiptoed over the resulting vomit.  
"A ham sandwich for lunch, eh?" He grinned, shoved up his sleeves, and began the process of removing Harry's stomach bile from off Hogwart's (usually pristine) floor. The blood was easily cleaned away by his magic but the smells and stains of Harry's inner foulness were beyond even Dennis' power to contain. Harry just stood there, and watched with indignity as Dennis magicked the cleaning spells. He didn't feel obligated toward Dennis—first, for saving him from the Auror headhunters, or for taking care of him in general. No, what he felt was more human, more primal. He felt inferior and, had Harry not long ago surrendered his pride, anger. As the march continued on to Dumbledore's, they were both silent. Harry gave long strides, and stared unwaveringly at the floor in front of him. Dennis attempted again and again to bring up a conversation but after a few awkward silences, he stopped trying. Stop it, Harry, Dennis thought. Save your scary looks for your enemies. I'm a friend, right? Right?  
The two walked on. Harry in front, and Dennis, steadily behind. It was an intolerable atmosphere, with Harry exuding his hostility, and Dennis, desperately needing toiletries, but Dennis strode on diligently. When they arrived, both assumed the other would knock on the door, and, as they stared at each other, they began to laugh.  
"Look, Den, I've been a jerk. I'm sor—"  
"Forget about it. It's not been a very good day. For both of us," Dennis replied. He squinted at the door and read out a few lines to himself. He nearly choked with laughter.  
The door's sign read:  
Alby's  
Headmaster ^ Dumbledore's Office  
Please remember not to knock. You'll scare me..  
  
Dennis shook his head. Albus Percival Brian Wulfric Dumbledore was the only person in the world who would graffiti his own office door. The old man was improper, kiddish, and, at times, spoke with a humor that was entirely his own. Even with all these idiosyncrasies (or because of them), he was still loved by a great many people—including Dennis.  
But when they opened the door, they did not find the old man. Instead, strangers crowded the ovular room. And the noise, now that they were inside the office, was deafening. French, German, Norwegian, English, as well as Mathematics were being thrown against each other in tumults and torrents.  
"Nein! Verstehen sie nicht! Wihr sein am Rande eines Krieges stehen—"  
"Oui! "Voulez-vous cesser de me cracher dessus pendant que vous parlez!"  
  
The German and the Parisian were almost up in arms against each other but a small Norwegian stood between them, trying to mediate things. Unfortunately, both parties were heavy-set beings and towered over their mediator several times over. He was shoved many, many times. The Norwegian ambassador had always been a patient man but, after the seventh push, even he was near his boiling point.  
Children. A crisis happens, and this is how these people react, the Norwegian thought as he was again shoved away. Pitiful. "Vær så snill, gentleman! Stop and behave, please. We have guests!" As the attention focused on Harry, he could almost feel his ears popping from the pressure. Their staring eyes went from his face, to his trademark black-rim glasses, and then finally to his scar. Many of them began to whisper. Harry understood the tone if not the words. It was the same old thing, the same old story, just retold in a different time and place. And Harry was getting sick of it. Sick of them! Dennis frowned at Harry's heaving chest. Now was not the time for tantrums of any kind, no matter how justified. "Let it go," he whispered into Harry's right ear. "We need them." "I wasn't mad," Harry lied. As if it mattered even if he had been. Like if he could scare them. They were wizards, and Harry was a mere mortal. If anything, it was Harry who should be fawning and afraid. Harry sighed once again. I wasn't meant to live like this. "I think we were the last to arrive. Let's just sit down and wait for Dumbledore," Harry said lethargically." In silence, they made their way to their assigned chairs. The office was ovular in shape, and the chairs were lined up accordingly. The French and German parties stared across from each other, scowling and fidgeting all the while. The Norwegians were placed between them, a buffer to any aggressions that might develop. These foreigners numbered six persons and they filled up the entire left wing of Dumbledore's office. "Why were we placed here?" came a question from the group. "Why sit with these uglies when there's plenty of space over there." The man pointed to the right, and the group began to argue over who could relocate their places. "Because...it is reserved for our other guests, so kindly sit back down," came the sturdy reply. The people in the room, both the foreigners in the left wing, and the Englishmen in the right looked around to see where it came from. Finally, a panel slid open from the ceiling above of them and a recognizable figure floated down with full regalia and fanfare. Dennis could not help but smirk.  
"Dumbledore, you old drama queen. Can't you just use the door like  
normal people?" The old wizard touched down. He chuckled, "But it's so very much more spectacular this way. And I do so love spectacles. Besides, with all the hubbub Herr Krieg and Monsieur Montague were causing, I was a bit afraid to enter my own office. Seems rather outrageous, wouldn't you say, Mr. Creevey?" Although the tone was mirthful, Albus' face was far from friendly. "Very," replied Dennis. He glared at the Parisian and German diplomats, as if telling them: oh you're gonna get it now. Now that Dumbledore's here.  
But then came even more babble as the German and Parisian heads began their apologies to Dumbledore. The diplomats were respectful...well, to a degree. After all, the man had defeated Grindelwald and an accomplishment like that had gained him the gratitude of every race subjugated by that past evil. Even though wizards (like most humans) were notorious for forgetting favors, there was a small instinct that told most to respect Dumbledore. Besides, it was never a wise thing to disrespect a powerful wizard. Never. The German was the first to make his excuse. "Oh, cause trouble? Me? Monsieur Montague und I sind the best of friends. It was no more than a discussion...between friends!"  
"Oui! It is as Kriego says. We were merely—"  
"The name's Krieg, dumpkoff!"  
"Cretin!"  
"Frog-eater!"  
Dumbledore stamped his foot and the sound reverberated magically across the whole of the room.  
"Gentleman! This is very, very unbecoming. You are here to represent the interest of your country, and I must say, you two reflect it very poorly," Dumbledore scolded. "Now hug each other so we may begin." Dumbledore mimicked hugging motions and then folded his arms. The Norwegian Ambassador grimaced. Over the years, as a member of the Wizengamot, he had relied and followed much of Dumbledore's advice. The old man's counsel was always logical. Always sound. As for everything else, it was safe to say that Dumbledore was completely insane. "Well, start hugging. We haven't all day."  
  
"Don't play your games with me, Albus. I do no take kindly to your brand of ridicule," Herr Krieg said menacingly. "Remember, I came here at YOUR behest! I-our country will not be treated like this! We are not one of your students to be--" Before Herr could slam his hand down onto Dumbledore's desk, he was stopped. In a flurry of wings and scratches, the German had been beaten down to the ground Dumbledore chuckled. Fawkes, you big showoff. He bade his bird to return and Fawkes flapped happily back, even taking the time to pause in mid-flight to give Krieg a smug stare. Krieg did not notice. He was much too relieved to still be alive. The room was completely silent, except for Harry, Dennis and the Norwegian group, which were snickering up a storm. "Thank you, Mr. Krieg, for not damaging my desk. It is old wood. Very hard to come by," Dumbledore delivered with only the tiniest smile on his face. He turned away and spoke firmly. "Again, I shall enumerate. This is my office; this is my school. If you wish to behave like children here, I suggest you go somewhere else. I'm too old for this rubbish. I've allotted ten minutes for this meeting, and we've already used up too much. Let us begin, shall we? Mrs. Trelawney?" A gaunt woman appeared to his right. Harry's left eyebrow raised. Trelawney? The Oracle? What was she doing here? She's not part of the Order. What possible use could Albus have of someone like her? "Yes, Albus?" "The rest of the group may come in now." Trelawney opened a side door (or was it a back door? Magical offices tend to cast off geographic convention) and in came a veritable troop.  
"Thank God..." Harry whispered as he saw and recognized the faces that  
came in. "I haven't seen you people for so long..."  
One of the figures threw back the hood of his cloak. The man's face  
was revealed. Although, it was an ugly one, there was much hidden  
within. Nothing could defeat him. This was a warrior. This was a legend. This was... "Alastor Moody? Sonuvabitch! What the hell are you doing here!" yelled Krieg from the floor he sat on. He seemed to forget that, just moments ago, he had been thrashed like a schoolboy by a birdie. "Hey, Craig. Nice to see you too."  
"The name's Krieg..."  
"So, what's going on, we left our son with the neighbor, and I want to get back before the Johnsons can corrupt my son with their version of the Bible."  
Moody sat gruffly down, took a look at Harry, smiled a bit, and then went back to his usual dour demeanor.  
"Old Man Moody re-married?" Harry whispered to Dennis.  
"Yeah, you wouldn't believe to who..."  
  
"Ahh," said Dumbledore. "Everyone is here now. Let me make the introductions." He pointed at the diplomats, "These are the emissaries I requested from the three countries affected by the past events. The Norwegians: Mister and Mrs. Amon. Monsieur Monatague and his attaché, Madame Belluci from the France Ministry. And I'm sure you all know Herr Krieg and his eldest son, Sigmund.  
  
Dumbledore pointed to his right now.  
"My dear diplomats, you may not know who these people are, be sure, you will not find them in any history books but they have played roles more vital than you will ever know. The bald one—" The one with the hat frowned. "—is my good friend, Kingsley Shacklebolt. And the two sitting next to him, is Dennis Creevey and Harry Potter. The one on the lonely spot to the right, is Alastor Moody and his lovely wife, Nymphadora Tonks. There will be one more to join this company but he will have to be briefed later, seeing as how we are already behind schedule. Now, I'm sure you diplomats have questions. Why have I called you all here? Why have I reassembled the Phoenix Order?—"  
The Norwegian spoke up.  
"Reassembled? When was the Phoenix Order ever disbanded? I've visited your Ministry's—"  
"The true Phoenix Order works best in the dark. The Ministry's version of Order is no more than a front, so if an attack should come, it would fall on them and not on the true defenses." Dumbledore paused. "It was Minister Percy's idea to propagate this false Order, and, I must say, it showed considerable foresight. As you all know, the Ministry of England, as well your own, were attacked by unknown forces just last week. I have been quite busy calling forth the Order's agents from their hibernation, and they have found out very interesting things for me. But there is only so much one can do with mere whispers. I shall need physical presences. If you would follow Mrs. Trelawney into my solarium, she shall brief you on what is needed. Good day."  
  
"But.."  
"That's all!...Who do you think is behind this...WE demand answers..."  
"Is it Voldemort?"  
"Is it Harry?"  
  
"You diplomats better close your rat mouths," growled Moody from his chair. Tonks was twirling his hair with an amused look on her face. "You are not the only important diplomats he has to see today. Your countries may seem to be the only ones that have been assaulted, but I assure you, that is not the case. Now get up and follow me."  
Moody placed his hands in his pockets and bundled off. It was strange to see him out of battle gear. It was even stranger to see him in a fine Gallagher six-piece robe. Harry grinned at Moody's fidgeting. Moody had never been one to be at ease. Thank god, Harry thought. At least there are some things that won't change. But...  
Moody married Tonks? Aren't they like decades apart?  
  
"Harry, don't stare at them like that. You'll burn your eyes out," whispered Dennis jokingly. "And, it's not as disgusting as you think. In fact, once you find out how old Tonks really is..."  
  
"DRACO!!!" Harry screamed.  
Sitting with a smirk in the center of the solarium was a blond man. His robes were jet black, and his wand was pointed straight at Harry's face.  
"Hello, Potter," Draco sneered. "Miss me, do you?"  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------  
  
"Draco!" Harry screamed again. "Yes, you bastard." Draco sheathed his wand, and turned to look at Trelawney with droll eyes. "Can we speed this up? I've got many other things to do." Harry was completely silent. The Malfoy beast before him was acting casual but Harry was not at all convinced. Draco and him shared a history full of blood and vengeance. Draco's father had killed countless of Harry's friends during the Train Massacre. And Harry, months afterwards, in a fit of fury, had reduced Lucius' wife to a paraplegic. These were not simple things. Neither were they forgivable. Trelawney looked concernedly between Potter and Malfoy. She rolled her eyes. It was beyond her meager intelligence to fathom Dumbledore's true intentions. But if he trusted Malfoy, then...  
She spoke: "Your orders, are within these manila envelopes. Please destroy them when you have finished." "Malfoy will head to Norway with the Amons." "The Moodys will accompany the Krogs back to Germany." "It's Krieg, dammit!" "That leaves...Potter with the French ambassadors."  
  
Both Monsieur Montague and Madame Belluci were visibly aggravated by this announcement but they put a brave face on. "Ah, Mr. Potter," Montague smiled meekly. "It will be a pleasure to work with you." "Yeah," replied Harry dryly. "I'll bet."  
  
Trelawney handed out the envelopes one by one, starting with Alastor Moody, followed by Draco Malfoy, and lastly to Potter. Her eyes flared. An electric pulse seemed to reverberate and crackle around the point of contact between her and Harry. Alarmed, Harry pulled away, and she crumpled to the ground. "Miss Trelawney! Are you alright?" Winds issued from her pores and an ungodly light poured out from every seven of her orifices. Her voice was thunderous, and her face, could it be described, was the very image of terror.  
"The End is Nigh  
When the dead shall become free  
As the morning dies  
Where Two shall follow Three."  
  
"Beware the Son of Adelaide  
His hand be laden to the brim with prayers  
Filled with thorns of hope  
And take careful heed of what he boasts  
For blood is his only recourse."  
  
"Someone help me bloody hell write this stuff down!" screamed Moody.  
"Don't worry, darling," said Nymphadora calmly. "This is an old prophecy. I remember it."  
"Old?"  
"Not just old. It's a direct translation from Ancient Greek...from when the Oracle inhabited a Telmissian girl named Tabitha," she said plainly. There was a nostalgic look on her face as if she were remembering better days. She continued, "Anyways, there's a full page of the complete prophecy in my records. Now help me get something for Sybil to bite on. I don't want her to gnaw her tongue off."  
Sybil Trelawney was spasming violently on the floor now, and the language that issued from her mouth was barely human. The wizards around her were at once repulsed and amazed at the scene. For many, this was a first experience with a genuine Oracle Possession. Evidently, the literature that they had read on the subject was more than just a little inaccurate.  
"Moody! I said, now!"  
Moody grumbled, and reluctantly inserted his wand between Sybil's frothing mouth. Tonks(Mrs. Moody now, of course) heaved Sybil's form up and onto her arms, and began to step through the northernmost of the four exits.  
  
As their forms disappeared into the dark corridors, there was a silence in the air. A bewildered silence. What the hell was going on?  
Harry's eyes were fixed directly on Draco, however. How could Dumbledore allow a...Malfoy...into such a secret and important meeting? After all, the Malfoys weren't especially known for their loyalty. In fact...  
  
"So?" Draco asked with a sneer. "I'm going to leave now. I do have my orders." He held up his manila envelope with the Norway instructions. In a flash of green flame, the papers became ashes.  
"And Potter, after this is over, you and I, we've got unfinished business. You understand?"  
Potter's face eased. "Look, about your mother..."  
Draco black eyes glinted madly, "Don't even try to explain. I was there. Yes, I was there. I saw you. Unlike the rest of your friends. I saw you. The real you."  
Great, Harry thought as he watched Draco's cape billow into the southernmost exit. Another person that wants me dead. Just what I need.  
  
There was a brief shuffling as the people inside the solarium opened their envelopes to read their orders.  
Harry opened his:  
  
Dear French Ambassadors and to their charge, Mr. Potter,  
  
The attacks on your Ministry, if I am not wrong, are but the first of  
many. While I can only hope that your defenses will be enough, there  
is but one way to be safe. Obliterate the enemy. But first, we must  
find the snake to kill the snake. Your tasks are simple but, still, if  
my surmises are correct, they will be more dangerous than you can  
afford.  
But I shall not send you to the Lion's den wholly unprepared. Ever  
since Voldemort's demise, I've not been idle. It is unfortunate but  
evil such as his is never an easy thing to uproot. I had hoped, after  
Bellatrix's defeat five years ago, that there would be, at last, some  
semblance of a steady peace. Sadly, as you can see by the recent  
attack on your Ministry, that was an overly optimistic view. In  
hindsight, there were more than a few clues that the Deatheaters were  
once again on the move. Were I a few years younger, I would have had  
them all rounded up by now. I am not saying it to be boastful. Just  
realize how important your parts are in all of this. Should you fail,  
expect no saving grace. I can nay lead a calvary to the rescue  
anymore. Here is what I've learned.  
Five months ago, I received a missive from one of my agents that the  
remnant Deatheaters were researching large quantities of purified  
Frankincense. Frankincense is a potent sap naturally and in its  
magically-induced concentrated form, a candle made from it could last  
for near decades. But other than smelling pleasant there are no other  
properties. So, at that time, I dismissed it. But my agent was adamant  
that it portended to some greater plan, though he himself did not have  
any theories onto why they would need such quantities of Frankincense.  
  
My agent is now dead.  
I do not know what you may find. It is my hopes that should you  
uncover their goals for this substance; the resulting information may  
eventually lead to the discovery of our true enemy. The dossier  
enclosed has some information regarding the corporation that supplied  
the Deatheaters. The Conner-Houdin Co. is a well-guarded place. It  
will not be easy to ask them anything, much less extricate answers  
from them.  
Remember. A person has already died to obtain this information. So be  
careful and godspeed.  
  
Yours truly,  
A.P.B.W.  
Dumbledore  
  
Harry noticed that the Montague and his attaché Belluci were already burning up their documents. He hurried to do the same.  
Without magic, the only thing fire he could produce was from butane.  
It's a good thing I smoke, he thought, fumbling in his pocket for the Zippo his girlfriend back in the States had bought him just a month ago. Where the hell is it?  
The paper he held began to tingle softly.  
What the hell?  
The paper in his hand began to glow softly, only slightly so that only he would notice, and the words began to reform themselves.  
  
Dear Harry,  
  
Hello, Harry. It's been a long time since we've had a talk. And  
a longer time still before I can fully forgive you. I know it wasn't  
your fault, well, I just can't get past myself on that one. I hope you  
understand.  
About the Corner-Houdin company, there's additional information  
that can only be entrusted to you. The agent that Dumbledore wrote you  
about? His name was Victor Krum. Yes, Harry, the same Krum that was  
murdered in Hamburg.  
So, you can see, the situation in France isn't as kind as you'd think.  
And we only decided to send you because of your link with Krum's  
informant. Now that Krum's dead, he's gone underground—somewhere in  
the Louge District, I believe, but he's spooked. Spooked bad. Even if  
we find him, we need to have someone he'd trust. That's where you come  
in. Finding Neville should be your topmost priority. I have a feeling  
that, once he's uncovered, the threads to this mystery will finally be  
unraveled.  
And Harry, please come back alive. Contrary to public opinion, I don't  
hate you. I would never do that.  
  
Yours truly,  
Arthur Weasley  
  
P.S. Try to see Dumbledore before you go. Don't tell him that I told  
you that he's sick. He made me swear not to tell you. You do know that  
he thinks the world of you, right? Just see him before you leave for  
France.  
  
Dennis Creevey arched his back on his chair. He was yawning surreptitiously.  
"Oh, stop it, Den," Harry grinned falsely. He could not let Dennis see how disturbed he was. "I know you want to know what was in my envelope. Just ask."  
Dennis returned an indignant look before submitting a, "Fine, you got me. I'm dying from curiosity here. So tell me, where exactly in France are we heading to?"  
  
Harry had finally found his Zippo. He scratched a flame out, and watched slowly as it began to eat its way slowly up, word by word, sentence by sentence.  
  
"We're going to..." began Harry. His eyes stared at the two still un- burnt lines of Arthur Weasley's letter. ...I can't forgive you... ...I hope you understand...  
...He's sick...Truly... "Harry? Are you there?" Harry snapped out from his reverie. He brushed the ashes from his corduroys, and began to head for the easternmost exit. "Let's go see Dumbledore, first," Harry said softly. "Everything else..." ...I can't forgive you... Harry sighed. "Everything else...can wait." Harry left the Solarium with a very irritated Dennis Creevey in tow. Monsieur Montague followed closely behind. Being partnered with Harry Potter was not something he had wanted. Played wrong, this could—would become a fatal mistake for his already shakey career. In fact, judging by the rumors regarding the Harry, it could just be plain fatal. Montague shivered just thinking about it. "Madame Belluci, a little hurry please. We are very behind schedule. Okay?" "Yes," returned Belluci. "Yes, sir." Belluci, however, stalled a little behind. When she was sure that she was the last one still inside the solarium, she produced a small black box from beneath her tight-fitting turtleneck robe. "Cinis Collectare! Ima!" The ashes underneath Harry's seat collected in a dust devil swirl, twirling faster and faster until it finally became a condensed solid. "Accio Cube!"  
The cube levitated, and then bulleted straight into her black device.  
With one hand, she clapped the box softly shut. As she hid the magic back into her folds, she began to gently whistle. The tune was not French.  
Mission accomplished.  
  
END OF CHAPTER SIX  
  
Author Notes: I added a mini-Prologue to my stories. I was writing chapter 6 and I thought, how can I make people keep track of what's happened. I didn't want to write flashbacks all day so this is what I came up with. 


	7. Preview

Mabye:  
Maybe: "That's a good boy, Ron," said Dumbledore aimlessly. "You know, you're father's very proud of you. He always said you were the one that was most like him."  
"I'm Dennis Creevey, sir."  
"Oh. I'm sorry." Dumbledore closed his eyes, and as he slept Harry became livid.  
"What's happened to Dumbledore?"  
Snape eyed Harry with total disgust. There was something in his eyes, as if he blamed Harry for Dumbledore's condition.  
"He's old, you fool," Snape said. His voice was vicious. "Help me lift him to his quarters."  
They hoisted the frail, old man onto Snape's back, and they made quickly to Dumbledore's room. Inside his room, were mantles filled with burning pots of magical incense, books, and various Muggle paintings, mostly nudes. There was even a wall that displayed a thirteen-column row of vampire teeth.  
The place reeked of urine, and death.  
"Get out," said Snape.  
"Is Dumbledore—" Harry began but Snape turned around to snarl at him.  
"This is Dumbledore in his final years. Do you think he wants you to see him like this? Go off and brood about how sad your life's been. I have work to do."  
Harry clenched his fist, but he allowed Dennis to drag him out of the room.  
"He's just trying to get you riled up," Dennis comforted. " He's just being Snape."  
"There's something strange going on," Harry replied in a low voice. "Did you see Snape's expression? It's like he blames me for Dumbledore's condition—Do you know anything about it, Dennis?"  
The younger man was staring straight down, averting Harry's gaze.  
"No...I don't know. It's Snape's way." Dennis sniffed. "I got to go check on the captives. Be right back—"  
"Oh no you don't." Harry grabbed Dennis by his robe's neckfolds. "Tell me."  
  
"Wingardium Levosa!" Dumbledore incanted and Harry began to rise unwillingly into the air. "NO! Stop it this instant! I don't want it—I don't want it..." Dumbledore eyes were full of tears, and Harry could not bear to yell at the frail man anymore. "I know, Harry, that you never wanted any of it. Not the fame, not the scar, not your life. But such is fate, and we all must do what we can, when we can." He straightened up, placing his back firmly against the wall, and then said slowly. "Goodbye, Harry." Suddenly, in one unspoken word, the magical nexus inside of Dumbledore's soul ripped open, erupting in lightning form, fusing a solid link of magical ectoplasm between Harry's levitated body and Dumbledore's limp form. The tube of energy grew brighter, drawing its essence so quickly from Dumbledore's body that he would jolt at right angles from the force of the intake. It pulsed like a blast-ended skrewt, vampiring away all his energy until he became a dry husk, barely recognizable to even Harry. Harry watched in horror as the energy infused him, and the familiar ley lines of Ancient Magic were open once more to him. He was once again whole. He was once again the Harry Potter who had defeated Voldemort. And all it took...was for Dumbledore to die. The final transference of energy ended, and Harry collapsed hard onto the ground. He felt like crying, and, at the same time, angry with the man who had given him his life back. "Liar! You said I always had a choice, old man!" He beat his fist on Dumbledore's dead chest. "You...said I had a choice. I don't want it. Take it back. Take it back..."  
He then began to sob, and once he began, he found he could not stop. Draco was right. He wasn't a hero or a saviour. He was a harbinger of death. /find better way to cut scene. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----------------------------  
  
All seven hundred students, and their twenty-five professors attended Dumbledore's funeral.  
Mcgonagall's eyes were bleary red but her face was stoic, and her mouth was pursed tight. She rarely cried, and she would not do so now. Tears meant regret, and Dumbledore, she knew, had lived his life free from it. She would not disrespect his memory by crying.  
That did not stop her students, many of who were crying uncontrollably.  
In a corner of her eye, she saw her prized student standing aloofly still amidst the stands of the Quidditch pitch. Wulfric's eyes were beady, and they stared balefully at her.  
"Hello, Wulfric," she said kindly. "Where is your father?"  
"Dad's...drinking again," he said reluctantly.  
"Oh." Mcgonagall took the boy's hand, and led him to the seats along with the other students.  
"But...Professor!" Wulfric squirmed, unable to pry himself loose from McGonagall's firm grip. "They don't LIKE me. What are you doing?" She looked firmly into his eyes. "Do you know what Dumbledore wanted most in his life?" Wulfric thought quietly and then replied, "The demise of evil?" McGonagall laughed. "If only it were that simple. If only people came with labels. No, that may have been what he has done, but not truly what he has strived for." McGonagall sat Wulfric down into a chair next to a dark- haired Ravenclaw girl who was crying too much to notice the large boy besides her. "He wanted everyone to be happy. Especially the children. I'm not forcing you to befriend anyone. Just sit here and mourn with your fellow human beings—" "But—" The Professor had already left, gone to talk to the other professors on whether or not they should suspend classes and allow time for the children to recover. As well as allow time for themselves to grieve. 


End file.
